we can't make any promises now, can we, babe?
by safeandsound13
Summary: When Clarke doesn't keep up her end of the deal she made with Wallace to put a stop to the Uprisings, he gets to her the only way he knows how. Through hurting the people she cares about, which includes Bellamy. One of them has to die in that arena, and as long as she's got anything to say about it, it's going to be her. / Catching Fire AU.
1. Chapter 1

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All Clarke sees when she looks in the mirror now is someone looking back at her that she doesn´t recognize. Most of the bruises on her neck and arms have faded, most of the cuts and burns have turned into scars. The capital had wanted to make them disappear forever, but Clarke had talked her way out of it. She didn't want to forget.

The Victor's Village is nice, she guesses. She has an entire mansion to herself; _a castle_ , Bellamy had joked dryly during her introductory tour. It's pretty isolating.

There's more than ten houses, only three of them full. Really only two most of the time nowadays. Some people in the Seam shared a small shed with six people or more. She gets why it's easy for their people to distance themselves from her, to resent her, to see her as nothing else but a victor. It's not like she'd actually be able to help them, let them move into one of the homes or give them shelter at hers. The price for that is execution. She understands it's hard for them to accept this luxurious life is the reward for murder. It's hard to accept for herself on more days than not.

Mostly, she just feels alone. Her mother can't live with her because it reminds her of the time she lived there with Clarke's father, and Clarke is forbidden to live anywhere else. Has to keep up appearances that the life of a victor is worth the trouble. She tries to visit her now and then, at the practice, but it's different now, when her mother looks at her.

Her mother had acted strange when Clarke got back. She couldn't look maintain direct eye-contact for more than a second, flinched whenever she touched her, barely spoke to her, tried her hardest not to be alone with her, didn't even want her to help with her patients.

"I know what you did in there—you had no choice. I know that," Abby's voice had trembled when she'd finally build up enough courage to confront her about it. It's a lie. Clarke knows it is because her mother always believed there was a choice. She could've chosen not to kill anyone. She might've died, but she would've died as the person she wanted to be, the person had mother raised her to be, the person who wouldn't have deserved it. The good guy. "It's not fair of me to hold it against you. You tried to show mercy and—you're my _daughter_ …" She'd smiled at her shakily, eyes brimmed with tears as she'd reached out to cup Clarke's face with her long, boney fingers, lifting her shoulders noncommittally. "Maybe that's what makes it worse."

Maybe it would've been easier on her mom if she'd just died in that arena. Then she could have mourned her and moved on. Now she's just a permanent reminder of the girl she used to be. A constant grief. Maybe it would've been easier on a lot of people.

Wells… Wells is a different story. President Wallace had had a talk with her before she left the capital after her victory tour. He makes her repeat the story again, about _how a tracker jacker stung her and then she saw Finn die and she loved him so much and she couldn't imagine her life without him, she just couldn't and how it made her do crazy things, say crazy things_.

There have been more Uprisings recently, more than ever, since the Games started, and he needs her to squash them. Uprisings could turn into a second rebellion, which in turn could make the entire system collapse around them. And if the system collapsed, her people would die, not his. Her district buried like district thirteen was all those years ago in the name of war. He'd grinned, maliciously. Told her that, since she is now part of the inner-circle, there was no reason for secrets anymore.

"Polis assisted in renovating those mines, with help of your father, after we so graciously allowed him to study engineering here, of course." Her stomach had churned at the mention of her father. "Do you really think they caved in, just like that?" He'd snickered unpleasantly, coughing into his handkerchief, Clarke's entire body freezing up with dread and hate. "No, no, my sweet Clarke. In fact, the structure was so good it needed a little… _help_."

There had been no need for him to elaborate for Clarke to understand exactly what he'd been saying. The talks and whispers in town had been right, the cave in at the mine—that killed her father and two-hundred other workers—had been orchestrated. Like another act of a play.

"Why?" She'd croaked out and his eyes had turned into dangerous slits. "Because I felt like it, because I needed to remind people they weren't safe, because they were all young, healthy men that wouldn't comply." He hadn't been able to risk them turning on him. The smile had returned, like he just now remembered he'd been spitting at her like an animal. "Does it really matter, dear?"

Two peacekeepers had lifted her out of her chair, suddenly, moving her towards the door. Then, he'd let it slip that Mayor Jaha, of all people, is the one who pulled the lever. Wasn't that curious? She'd yanked her arms loose, turning back around. She was ready to protest, but the look in his eyes told her enough. He was not bluffing. He'd offered to show her the footage, but she has enough disturbing images flashing through her mind at any given moment. No need to add more to the catalogue.

Still, still she had hope. That maybe, if she looked at Wells, he'd still look the same and they could still be who they were before the Games. She'd hugged him, long and tight, at the first sight of him, because deep down she already knew. But as soon as she saw his face, mentioned what Wallace had revealed to her, her suspicious were confirmed.

"Clarke," he'd said, trying to ground her by putting his hands on her arms, but she takes a step back. His hands had fallen limp at his sides. "My dad… he told me a long time ago. In case I ever needed to step in. Wallace threatened to have him drained off all his blood in the middle of the town square if he didn't comply, to set an example. He was trying to prepare me, for the kind of sacrifices I would have to make if I were ever to be mayor. If something happened to him."

Her face had fallen. Sacrifices? He pulled a lever, killing over 200 just because Wallace asked nicely? He could have warned them, if anything. Or given Clarke and her mom the dignity and respect they deserved by at least telling then the truth. He owed them that much.

Quietly, he'd urged, "I didn't think it would matter. To hurt you even more when it already had been done."

She'd blinked against the tears that swelled in the corners of her eyes. "I know it's not fair, to you especially, but every time I see your face, I see your dad staring back to me. And I think," her voice had cracked, and he should've told her sooner, her best friend. She's probably not being rational, not with the Games so short ago, not when it came to her father. But, she couldn't add one more single thing to the long list of painful memories. "And I think about how he murdered my father."

"Clarke," he had repeated, softer this time, resigned as a tear rolled down the side of his face. She'd shaken her head, cutting off whatever he was about to say. She understood why, she did, she really did. She just couldn't live with more reminders of the tragedies in her past when it was already so hard to live.

"No, Wells—I'll be fine, okay? You don't have to worry about me. I have Anya," she'd smiled encouragingly, but it didn't reach her eyes, didn't show in her posture, not when they both knew Anya's of to no use to anyone. Not since she stepped into an arena all those years ago. But she still loved him too much to hurt him.

She didn't know why she'd paused for a second before adding, "and Bell-Bellamy." She had swallowed mid-sentence, trying to keep her voice steady. It had sounded too soft, too fond, too much of something there that she didn't want to bother Wells with, that probably was borderline codependent.

"Maybe one day," she had dismissed him, promised even, voice lingering, his hand already on the door-handle. Maybe one day she would be able to fight her demons, she would be able to look him in the face and not feel all the pain in the world, maybe one day they could be friends again.

That was the last time she saw Wells. She realized too late that this was probably what Dante had wanted, to alienate her from each and every person she cared about. However impure or pure his intentions, the damage had already been done. It didn't really matter _why_ Wallace had told her, now did it? The information was out there, and she couldn't forget it.

The truth is, she hasn't slept through a single night for weeks. She thinks about it often. The faces of their families, during the victory tour, how she had to look them directly in the eye and sell them the same bullshit story Polis had been spewing around for 73 years. They had her shake the hand of Atom's mother; pose for a picture with her arm around the shoulder of Ontari's little brother; tell Madi's mother it was all worth it. They're worse, worse than the images of the tributes she killed. Sometimes she could still feel the warm, sticky blood on the skin of her fingers, the thu-thumping of their hearts under her hands.

But Bellamy makes sure she comes out of bed everyday, forces her to have breakfast at his house with him and his sister every single morning. Anya joins sporadically. She's what happens when you let yourself stay in bed, even if it's just once. It becomes too easy to do it again, until you're stuck.

Sometimes, he's the only reason she puts a brush to her hair, or eats, takes a shower, because then he doesn't have to nag, and it's a better world when he doesn't.

"Goodmorning, sunshine," his sister greets her one morning with a snarl. Clarke came in early today and had already started her cereal breakfast. "Glad you're feeling right at home." The girl had the worst temper in the mornings, the worst tempers period. She holds up the empty container of cereal, makes a whole show out of shaking it to demonstrate the lack of content before shoving it over the counter roughly. "You do know Bell has to get these especially from the capital?"

The first time she'd met Octavia, she wasn't sure what to think. Beside her deadly glare, the first thing out of her mouth was: "For the record, I don't have to like you." Which was, technically true, Clarke guessed, as it was always in social situations. "I saw your hand-to-hand combat. I would win." Clarke had held her hand up in defense, eyebrow cocked, "By all means, kick my ass. I'm pretty sure even my reflection in the mirror would have me down on the floor within seconds right now."

She'd finally cracked a small smile at that, and it didn't take Clarke long to understand. Bellamy and Octavia only ever had each other, growing up in the Seam. The girl was distrusting and fiercely protective to a fault, but as soon as she warmed up a little, was obviously happy to have someone else around besides her own brother all the time. Clarke had been the first person that actively took part in her life since she was probably twelve years old—and Bellamy was reaped, emeriging a victor—taking in account Anya wasn't that good of company. It would take some getting used to.

Bellamy usually goes hunting in the early mornings, so sometimes it's just the two of them. Those are the moments Octavia tells her how Bellamy had to put his name in 64 times during his year of the Games, how her name was only in there once. Tells her about the bedtime stories he'd tell her when she was little about Augustus or Prometheus, how he got the scar on his upper lip (refused to let Octavia keep a kitten, said kitten then scratched open his face so for some reason he let her keep it anyway because it reminded him of her), how one time he got so drunk trying to calm his nerves during a date with ' _Bree who wasn't from the Seam_ ' he threw up on her feet, about Octavia's dates with a boy named Sterling or Ilian that she _absolutely can't tell Bellamy about and if you do I'll put my foot so far up your ass you'll be tasting your own shit for weeks to come_.

"That's why it's so good," Clarke smiles sheepishly, holding the bowl up to her face as she spoons it into her mouth. "Must be the extortion of farmers from district seven. Makes it extra fulfilling, you know, knowing people actually got criminally underpaid for their extensive labor."

Octavia clenches her jaw, knuckles turning white as she braces herself on the kitchen table. She opens her mouth, probably to rip her a new one when her brother steps into the room, regarding the both of them with a snort as his eye falls on the empty container.

"O, calm down. I have to go to Polis later this week, anyway." Bellamy pinches his sister's side through her shirt, making her twist away, elbowing him the chest as they hiss lowly about how ugly the other one is like only siblings can.

Clarke's face scrunches up as she finally registered what he said. Mouth still half full, she talks over them, "Polis?" Why would he possibly want to go there on the off-season? She sits up in her chair, expectantly.

"Oh, don't worry, princess. You won't have to miss me that long," he teases, but there's a kind of rigidness, tension in the way he carries his shoulders as he turns back around to prepare himself a plate. She decides not to push it.

She snorts into her cereal. "Oh God, yes. However will I survive without your wisdom beyond my years?"

He steals a half-eaten cheese bun from Octavia's plate and she just gruffs, eyes dark. "Seriously? Am I going to have to find my own fucking house to live in?"

"Unless you start cleaning up after yourself, preferably yes." Bellamy responds without skipping a beat, and before Clarke knows it, they're bickering again, like only the Blakes can.

(Sometimes she's not even sure why Bellamy cares if she showers, or gets out of bed. Then she watches him look at his sister with just unguarded tenderness, she thinks, _yeah_. He doesn't know how not to care about other people. Sometimes it's easier to go to Anya though. She doesn't judge her, or push her. She just has to bring her own booze.)

One afternoon, the lack of sleep finally catches up with her and she falls asleep on the Blakes' couch. She promised herself it was only for a moment, she still had a painting that was half unfinished and some banana bread she wanted to bake for her mom.

She sketches a lot, paints sometimes, too. It helps. Sometimes she finds herself outlining Madi's smile, or Atom's eyes before she can realize she's doing it. It hurts at times, because of the scarring on her hand from the burns it's not always fully functioning. Her skin's a little pinker there, but thanks to the capital's magic you wouldn't even be able to tell at first glance. The burns were just too deep and too severe to fully heal. She won't let them take another thing from her, though.

It just felt so good to close her eyes, for just a second. Until it didn't.

Hands were wrapped around her neck, making it hard to breathe. She choked for air, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. When she opened them, though, it wasn't Ontari or Dax staring back at her. It was herself. She was smirking, her hair and makeup done like it was during her interviews, "You have to _pay_ for what you did, Clarke. Blood must have blood." She turns her head and Clarke follows her line of sight, revealing Myles. His shoulders are sagged, blood everywhere, he croaks out, "You did this, twelve." He cries, whimpering as he takes his hand off the wound on his stomach. "Why did you do this, twelve?"

She surges awake, sweating like crazy, breathing labored. She figures she probably woke from the sound of her own screams once again, until she feels a presence near her. It's dark outside now, Clarke realizes as she tries to catch her breath.

"You have nightmares, too," Bellamy asks after a moment, once she's done shivering, his hand splayed across her back soothingly, arm stretched out from his position on the coffee table. It's not a question as much as it is a statement, but she stills nods. Usually there isn't anybody around to hear her screams. He looks angry, almost. Her mouth feels dry from sleep, brain hazy as well.

"I should go," she pants, pressing a hand to her clammy forehead.

"You can stay," he offers, but it sounds more like a demand. He looks exhausted, even in the pale moonlight. "It's late."

She's too tired to fight him, just closes her eyes and nods a confirmation. He's in his pyjamas so it must be the middle of the night. She shifts on the couch, so she can lean back. Her pulse is still in the hundreds, and Bellamy sighs. Tentatively, his thumb reaches out to smooth over her cheekbone gently. She freezes, until she realizes he's wiping her tears.

"Will you sit with me?" Clarke asks quietly, knowing he can't hold anything against her when she's still sleep-delirious from her nightmare. "Just for a moment."

He doesn't say anything, just lifts himself off the coffee table and settles down beside her. He puts his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. His movements are stiff at first, body tense around hers, but relax when she rests her head on the junction between his shoulder and neck, staring out the window. He's warm, nice.

Sometimes he still doesn't know how to act around her and neither does she. They were never really friends, were they? Maybe they don't even like each other, wouldn't like each other if they were to run into each other on the street. He got her all those sponsors though, tried to keep her safe. And now they're just permanently bonded by a horrible form of trauma, and there's no books written on what that makes them, or how to be. But this, this feels familiar at least, good. Like this.

"My first two tributes were Conor and Lily," he says eventually, clearing his throat uncomfortably, and she just hums low to acknowledge she's listening. "They were both twelve." Her grip on his shirt tightens, but she doesn't say anything. Everyone knew twelve year olds never stood a chance. It seems almost cruel Anya would let him mentor them by himself. Then again, it would be cruel to let her do it, too. She feels him swallow, tightly. She can't make herself look at him, knows it's easier for him to share in the dark. It's quiet for a moment or two, then voice rough, he admits, "I dream about them the most."

She loosens her grip, instead moving her hand over his forearm in understanding. He freezes, just a second, then it's gone. He continues telling her about them; the hopefulness in her eyes, the shyness in his smile; their dark hair and gray eyes. Eventually she closes her eyes, his voice lulling her back into a slumber. The nightmares don't come anymore that night. It's the best sleep she has in weeks.

.

They sleep together often, after that. They didn't at first, but at some point they had a mutual understanding that they didn't get any sleep without each other. After stumbling over to his house in the darkness a few times, it was just easier to admit she needed him. Her body finding some sort of comfort in the shared trauma, mind more at ease. Not with words, though, they're both too stubborn for that, too proud.

Of course, the nightmares still come sometimes, just less severe. They only ever talk about it in the dark, only ever offer each other comfort in the moonlight, going back to their usual ways as soon as they're at the breakfast table. Octavia must know she stays over, but she doesn't ever say anything about it.

One night, Clarke wakes up shivering. Not from a dream, but from the cold. When she turns in bed, it's because she realizes she's alone. Panic shooting up her spine, she sits up quickly, looking around for him. She spots him in the corner of his room, knees drawn to his chest as he rocks himself, hands pressed to his face as he mutters something over and over. It's a name. Charlotte.

"You're okay," she presses, soft, as she crouches down in front of him. She knows better than to scare him. Sometimes, they're not themselves when they're caught up in a memory. "Bellamy," she whispers, hoarse with sleep, trying to carefully pry his fingers away from his face.

"No, no," he bites, pushing her hand away. "No, I'm not." He leans his head back against the wall, defeated. There's tears trailing down his cheeks, seeping onto his dark-blue sleeping shirt but there's a staticity in his eyes. "My mother, if she knew—if she knew," he struggles, his voice breaking as he continues, choking back a sob. "If she knew what I've done, who I've become." He shakes his head, hard, more tears spilling. He never talks about her, his mother. "All I do is hurt people."

Her heart pangs at the admission, and she softens, putting her hand on top of his knee. "Bellamy—"

"No," he cuts her off bitingly. He looks miserable. "I'm a monster." He repeats it, coldly, like he wants her to confirm it, wants her to know, wants her to pull back. Her brow just crinkles, as she shifts closer. "No, you're not. You saved Octavia, saved—" she swallows, hard, trying to push down the feeling of her heart in her throat. "You saved me." His head finally snaps up to hers, no longer avoiding her eyes. "You may be an ass half of the time," she laughs weakly, "But I need you."

She does. Need him. Even if she can't admit it to herself on some days.

There's a beat of silence. She remembers what he had told her about Charlotte. A young girl that followed him the entire Games, even though he told her to stay away. Eventually, he gave in—because she reminded him of Octavia with her somewhat insistent abrasiveness but soft heart—deciding to try and save her instead of himself. How another tribute had thrown his spear into her chest, and she fell back, stumbled off a cliff. He tried to reach for her, but he was too late. She reaches out to smooth his hair back from his forehead, shaking her head softly. "Come back to bed."

He's still crying silently, but he nods, at least. She heaves him up, his weight heavy against her. They lay down, and he immediately turns away from her onto his side. She doesn't let him, though, doesn't let him check out like that. He won't let her, so she won't let him either. She presses her chest against his back, folding her arms around him.

"If you need forgiveness, I'll give that to you," she offers, adamant. It's hard to see his face, in the dark and from the angle she's in. She just hopes he's listening, because she understands, understands what it's like to wallow in the things you've done, tell yourself the worst things imaginable because those who died aren't there to contradict you. "I'll do it. You're forgiven." She hesitates, lowering her voice, but insisting, "But you can't—you can't close yourself off. You've gotta try."

"Go to sleep, Clarke," he mumbles eventually, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction, and she presses her cheek against his back, smiling.

.

On occasion, he lets her sleep in. Out of the goodness in his heart and all. This particular morning, he throws a pillow at her face, though. Understandably, she's much less grateful.

A surprised squeak leaves the back of her throat before she rolls over, groaning. She buries her face into his pillow, but not before letting him know he can go fuck himself. He just snorts, as she hears him pad around the room and rummage through his closet. She almost drifts back into a slumber, but then there's a loud crash, Bellamy cursing low under his breath.

Groggily, she sits up, over her sleep as she presses a hand to her head, moving some messy hair back from her face. "What time is it?"

"'S almost lunch time, you leech." She's about to go off on him calling her a leech when she does her fair share around the house, asks them over for dinner like every other day, bakes all kinds of breads for breakfast, their favorites usually, and _oh yeah, you're a fucking asshole_ ; when he emerges from the closet in just a towel, oblivious to her surprised reaction as she splutters for something to say all of a sudden.

It's the first time she's seen him without a shirt. She's seen some of them before, the scars, peeking out from under the collar of his henleys, or showing when he stretches. She had never asked about them, though. She had plenty of her own that she didn't want to talk about. He looks good, though. Olive skin stretched over taut muscles, flexing as he moves around and talks.

She was usually long gone before he even had a chance to get out of bed, heading over to her own house to get ready for the day before returning for breakfast. She must still be ogling his chest, because he waves a hand in front of her face. He snickers, and she's sure he's flexing on purpose now. "You like what you see, princess?"

"Shut up," she retorts stupidly, blaming a sleep hazed brain on the lack of reply as her cheeks heat. She falls back onto the bed with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the ceiling to try and get her heart rate to slow down. He just smirks, disappearing back into his bathroom for a second, before reemerging in cargo pants, still patting down his damp curls with a towel.

"The scars," she finally asks, swinging her legs out of the bed, hands wringing into his sheets. "Most of the other victors—" She doesn't finish her sentence. He shrugs with one shoulder, all the facetaciousnees gone all of a sudden as he pulls a shirt over his head.

He sinks down beside her on the bed, ducking his head to avoid her gaze as he adjusts his shirt. "When they asked me," he explains, talking about right after the Games, "I wasn't really in the mood to be touched by the capital ever again." There's a tension in his shoulders.

"It'd be too easy," she admits, petulantly. Because maybe she didn't let them mostly out of pettiness. "For them to make it seem like it never happened."

"Well, if they wanted them gone, they would be," he just answers mindlessly as he slips into his boots. She furrows her brow, her lip curling and wants to ask him about it but then figures forcing medical procedures on people without their permission is right up Polis' alley. They made her get the pregnancy shot, too, back when the population in district twelve was growing too big. Sometimes his passiveness when it comes to the capital, to what they stand for, bothers her though. The way he just gives up or gives in, accepts the way it is. Like he's been burned one too many times.

"You want some food?" He changes the subject smoothly as he gets up from the bed, wiggling his eyebrows. "I finally caught a squirrel today."

"Sure," she mutters, smiling faintly as she watches him retreat. She rubs a hand over her face, and scolds herself as images of his bare chest flood back up in front of her eyes, and that stupid, stupid smirk.

.

One time, they fall asleep outside. It reminds her of her arena, but his room reminds him of his. The small confined space, like the maze made out of stone walls was, pods with mutts hiding around every corner to make a Games with only twelve tributes more _entertaining_. It's the reason he always slept with the door wide open, the windows cracked. Any other given night they're in his bed, so she can deal with it for four to six hours.

He'd been teaching her how to hunt now and then, and after catching all but one lizard that faithless morning, they had retreated back to his porch. She sketched for a while, he read. Staying out there, sharing old moonshine and her dumb lizard, and he brought out a blanket when it got too cold.

Octavia worked down at the butcher shop on most days, so she was good with knife, always preparing the animals for supper if her brother brought something home. Bellamy had his bow and arrow that he used for hunting. She'd wanted to learn, too. Be good at something. Reluctantly, he'd agreed. They weren't officially allowed to go into the woods, but Bellamy was pretty discreet about it, always hiding his tracks. Clarke figured that if they did get caught, they would probably only get a slap on the wrist anyway. Since they're victors and all. Perks, nothing but perks.

They were spread out on the grass now, blanket wrapped around the two of them. Octavia came to say goodnight to them, at one point, home late from her quote job unquote. Clarke had just quirked an eyebrow at her, the girl smirking back at her wolfishly before retiring back into the house, shivering and calling them crazy for staying out. If Bellamy was on to them, he didn't show, just sending her a funny look before adjusting his head to look back at the stars.

He squints his eyes at the sky, points his finger at something, hidden in the darkness. "That's Cassiopeia."

"Okay," she says, unsure. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, sitting up to lean back on his elbows. He looks down at her. "It's a constellation of stars." He turns his head back, pointing and talking about a _distinctive W_ shape until she just gives in and pretends to see it.

His gaze flickers back over to hers, briefly, lips pursed in self-righteousness. He knows she didn't _actually_ spot it, but also seems to think it's futile to try anymore, laying back down with a sigh. He drums his fingers on his stomach for a moment, then, he tells hers, "She was a queen, in Greek Mythology, very vain. She was always boasting about her beauty."

"Very, very arrogant," he starts, voice laced with something lazy and giddy, like he's just getting to the good part. "She reminds me of you, really." There it is. She shifts to scowl at him, elbowing him in the ribs, "You're just talking shit."

"She _was_ very pretty though," he admits like an afterthought, face still a grimace as he rubs the sore spot. A blush blooms across her face without her permission, but she rolls her eyes. It's an innocent thing to say really. She's not _un_ attractive, she knows that much. And he said it like it was no big deal, so she doesn't know why she's making it out to be such a—a Certified Thing.

"Now I _know_ you're just talking shit," she deadpans, wetting her lips and a laugh rumbles in his chest.

Her eyebrows quirk up at the revelation she got out of all of this. "So, you're a nerd?" She turns her head to find his inches aways from hers, smirk disappearing off her mouth. His jaw flexes.

Her mind flashes back to a moment between the two of them, earlier, in the woods. He was teaching her how to use bow and arrow, hand pressed low on her back. When she looked back at him over her shoulder in annoyance after she missed again, he was already looking at her, frown on his face. She asked him what was wrong, but he shook his head, taking a step back and telling her to try again.

There's a beat. Then he pinches her side through her shirt, asking her who she's calling a nerd, putting up a capital accent and, _the nerve she has speaking to a victor like that_. She laughs so hard, Anya opens her window at one point, hissing at them to be quiet.

Of course, this only makes them laugh harder.

.

"What's up with that fucking rat on your face?" Octavia finally snaps, breaking the silence after a tense breakfast. Bellamy came back from a two-week visit to Polis early in the morning, sporting something entirely new. Clarke and Octavia both refused to be the one to mention anything, because he obviously _wanted_ them to ask about it. He kept smugly asking them if they'd noticed anything different about him.

His visit had been longer than usual, and it'd made Clarke antsy. She still slept in his bed, mostly out of habit, but it didn't help much.

(One of the only times they hadn't slept together was a few weeks ago. They made exceptions when one of them was sick or Clarke crashed at Anya's after one of their 'therapy sessions'. This particular time she was about to go into Bellamy's room, nose red and cold from the snow outside when Octavia stopped her, semi-panicked look on her face.

"Uhm, Clarke," she'd cleared her throat, unusually nervous as she had given her a pointed look. "I wouldn't go in there, if I were you."

"Why not?" She'd asked dumbly—because yeah, she was a little earlier than usual but she was tired as hell after a long day of baking and Octavia generally tried to avoid talking about their nightly escapades anyway so what could possibly be so—but as soon as the words left her lips, everything clicked all at once. She'd stiffened. "Oh," she'd breathed, even more dumb, cheeks heated.

It's not like she didn't _know_ he did that. He wasn't like an unattractive troll to her or anything, even if she did prefer girls most of them time. He actually had quite the reputation around town, when she started paying attention to what people said about the districts first male victor. It's not difficult to imagine him doing that, not really. She even woke up sometimes with his hard-on pressed against her back (she never mentioned it, and if he was aware she knew he never said anything either) so she also knows he was more than capable of doing it. So… So good for him.

He just normally never took them home. Her hand was still on the door handle, so she'd jerked it back quickly, ducking her head to avoid Octavia's gaze. She'd been smirking, clapping her on the back sympathetically before Clarke left quickly.

He'd asked her, the next morning. Where she was. She had lied with a smile on her face that she'd fallen asleep in her art room. They both knew it was a lie, and he had frowned. He didn't bring it up again.)

It also didn't help that he never wanted to discuss about what exactly he was doing there.

Clarke chokes on her milk, trying to hide a laugh. It looks—okay. Makes him look older. She still prefers him without a beard though.

"You don't like it?" He asks, feigning hurt as he breaks open one of her bread rolls and generously fills it with the jam his sister made. His posture is tired though, bags under his eyes. Maybe he hadn't slept as well either. Octavia almost looks like she's having a stroke. "I'm scared that thing is going to crawl off your face at night and murder me in my sleep."

Clarke is wheezing at this point, when he turns towards her with a sad look. He looks like a puppy as he reaches up to run a hand over his chin. "You're not going to defend my honor?"

She watches him stuff his face with the bread, shaking her head. She grimaces. "It looks… good." Octavia scoffs, eyes narrowed as she munches on one of the sticky buns Clarke made especially for her. "You're just saying that because you're too damn close to enemy territory every night."

She catches Bellamy's eye, who's smiling in amusement and Clarke just snorts, dryly, "Yeah, you're right. Can't risk it coming for me first. I'm too young to die."

Later, when he emerges from his bathroom, clean shaven might she add, she finally builds up the courage to ask. He crawls into the bed beside her, folding his arm around her. He waits for her to lay her head down on his chest before he reaches for the bedside lamp. She stops him.

She moves away from him slightly, drawing one knee up to her chest. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to get out the knots. Almost shyly, she asks, "Why do you go there?"

He sighs, resigned as he presses a few fingers into his eye-socket, rubbing. He probably figured she would ask sooner or later. She's not good with secrets. He doesn't say anything for a while.

"It's not a," he starts, then stops. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and his jaw flexes, eyes dark as he focuses on staring straight ahead, "Choice." He seems to struggle with the word. She looks at him expectantly, but nothing follows.

"Why can't you just tell me?" There's an edge to her voice, but she isn't entirely sure that it's anger. It might be panic. Or full out hysteria. It only seems to make him more tight-lipped, which in turn rattles her only further. "After everything we've been through, you. You'd pick their side over mine? You'd go there willingly, even after what they did to you, to me, what they're still doing—"

She told him everything, shared all of her fucking trauma with him, and he what? Goes there for groceries? Meets with Wallace to thank him for the opportunities he's given him? Has a fucking tea party with Cage?

Time had passed too comfortably these past few months, making it easy to ignore the fact that in four months, another Games would start and the terror would be new all over again, the trauma fresh. It figured they were just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Clarke," he says, pressing, almost like a warning, but she hisses dismissively. No. She has to know. "You're still trying to play a part? Even after the Games have been done for—"

"If you think they were _eve_ r done with us, you aren't as smart as I thought you were, princess," he spits, spitefully, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed so his back is facing her. His grip on the sides of the bed whitens his knuckles. He lets out a deep shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair as he tries to control his breathing.

He rests his forehead on the pad of his thumb, leg tapping nervously before looking at her over his shoulder, eyes dark as his hands clasp together anxiously. "The Games don't end when you step out of that arena. They're only beginning."

She puts her hand on his shoulder, and he tenses up immediately. She sighs, moving closer until she could press her cheek against his shoulder blade. She wasn't sure what to say. It was all so cryptic, but strangely, seeing him in so much pain, made it understandable. Whatever it was, it was bad. The sudden rush of emotions were choking her, her throat constricting.

"You don't understand," he admits, softer this time, like he's pleading. She shakes her head against his shoulder, because she doesn't, does she? "You can't escape it, any of it. You just have to accept it. The sooner, the better."

He pushes away from her delicately, turning so he's facing her again. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. His hand comes up to bracket her face. Her pulse speeds up and she can't suppress the creasing of her brow in confusion at his tenderness. His thumbs smooth over her eyebrows, watching her intently. She can't break his gaze, and just when she's can't bear the weight of it anymore, he drops his hands.

She watches him pensively, and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, then says, "Wallace is backing off now, and _only_ now, because you're still too much in the spotlight. But you're wanted, and he—he likes to build up the anticipation."

Anticipation? Of what? There's tears, brimming in his eyes, and she's stunned silent for a moment, mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"Dante, he—" His mouth closes again, like it's too hard to speak. He won't look at her. "He makes you do things, sometimes." He takes in a shaky breath, explains that President Wallace has the victors perform in a certain way for a camera, to broadcast them special for the privileged Polis citizens who are wealthy enough to pay the colossal price tag.

The tears finally fall and he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stripping becomes boring, so they make you do more, or bring in other victors. One, or more at a time. Even that becomes boring. Eventually, even the craziest acts become dull. So then he just starts selling you to the highest bidder, instead of just letting them watch." He explains that it was the reason why he was so drunk then, before her interview with Cage, before the Games. Explains that when he tried to _not_ accept it, when he didn't comply, it cost him his mother.

"I'm so sorry," is all she can get out, without bursting into tears. Her hand is shaking as she urges him to lay back down. He's eerily calm all of a sudden, but she can sense the tightness in his muscles as she rests her head on his chest. "Let's just go to sleep," she whispers, so sorry for asking. She wants to scream and rage and cry but the look in his eyes says enough. He's done all of that and more, and it cost him something. Maybe everything.

He has a nightmare that night, one of the worse she's ever witnessed in person. Afterwards, she'd placed her ear to his chest, listening to the erratic thumps of his heart. _The things they made him do, forced him into_ —Clarke is just so angry. A moment later, he seemed to return to himself, finally wrapping his arms around her as she ran a hand through his curls absently. The anger fades, and then Clarke just feels helpless. _You can't escape it._ She doesn't sleep that night.

.

Jaha comes to visit her. Not her Jaha, not Wells. The man who murdered her father.

She'd been painting on the porch, a still life of her garden, Bellamy sprawled beside her on her wooden bench, reading a beat up book and scribbling notes in the margins. His head was in his sister's lap, while she absentmindedly braided his hair. He'd just made a joke about how she always managed to get paint _everywhere_ (the stripe on her neck indicating as much) and she'd retaliated by sweeping her old paintbrush made out of squirrel hair over his arm. They'd been laughing, when suddenly Thelonius was hovering behind her. She hadn't noticed at first, until Bellamy and Octavia both froze, eyes fixated on something over her shoulder in confusion.

"Mayor Jaha," he states, simply when Clarke doesn't say anything, Octavia's hand folding around his upper arm to keep him from standing up. The blonde's too stunned, too caught of guard. Her grip on her brush tightens, as she tries to keep from shaking.

"Mr. and ms. Blake," he nods as a greeting, eyes flicking over to Clarke. "Ms. Griffin." He clears his throat, as some sort of polite dismissal, "I'm here to talk you."

Bellamy snorts, humourless, as he rises to his feet, grip on his book tight. Octavia follows not too long after, leaning up to tell him something in an indecipherable, hushed whisper.

"We'll leave you two," the youngest Blake says with a forced smile, briefly glaring up at her brother as she starts to make her way off the porch. Her brother doesn't budge, not even when she pulls on his hand roughly. He glances over at Thelonious, then looks back at Clarke, worriedly searching her face for any signs of distress. _He_ doesn't bother keeping his voice low. "You okay?" He knew, to some extent, what her fight with Wells was about. The part his father had played.

"It's fine," she confirms, avoiding any eye-contact with Jaha as she inhales sharply. Bellamy squeezes her arm in passing, reaching up to tug her braid gingerly. "I'll be on my porch, okay?"

She nods, mustering together a smile for him as he leaves, arguing with his sister quietly, before turning back to her easel, putting the brush down with trembling fingers. She might kill him. It would be the perfect opportunity to get rid of the nightmares. To get revenge for what he did to her, did to her father.

"I was asked to come here to check up on you," he starts after a moment of silence, even though Clarke's back is still turned to him, angrily sorting out her painting supplies and considering different ways to take him down. "To see if you were keeping up your part of the deal."

She scoffs, freezing her motions. Her voice is cold and calculated, because she absolutely fucking despises him and she wants him to know that. "Look at that, all these years, all these _favors_ and you're still best friends with Wallace."

"Clarke, I'm sorry about what happened all those years ago," he presses, and he has the nerve to sound sincere. He's _sorry_? He doesn't get to be. He knew what he was doing. "But I knew that if I didn't do it that would have grave consequences, graver than—"

She sees black, absolute darkness as she spins around on the heels of her feet, arms stiff at her sides as she cuts him off. "Graver than 300 innocent deaths?" She takes a step closer to her, eyes angered slits, she bites, venomously, "You're not God."

His lips press into a tight line, and he looks apologetic. Not for what he did, but for what happened. Which makes it worse. "It had to be done."

She huffs, almost humoured at this point as she grits her teeth together. He _had_ to kill her father? He could´ve found another way. She would have. He could've warned all of them so that they _couldn't_ have tried again, or not planted the fucking bombs to begin with. He'd just been too selfish. Now he has the nerve to make himself out to be some sort of sanctimonious martyr. "Why, because blood must have blood?"

He pushes his glasses further up his nose, shaking his head lightly. "If only it was so simple." His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he looks pained. "If not me, he would've made someone else do it. So I beared it."

She almost laughs out loud. He thinks he's some hero? She's done with this. This conversation, this fake politeness, fake regret, this fucking part they have her play. Wallace wanted him to check up on her? Wanted the people to know she wasn't starting a revolution? How about she strangles their mayor? Does that show enough fealty to Polis? "I could kill you right now."

"But you won't," he states matter-of-factly, and he doesn't move an inch. Not even when her nostrils flare, and her teeth grit together and he knows what she's capable of. What she's done. The lives she's taken. He continues, solemnly, "Because if you truly believe blood must not have blood, that also applies when someone has hurt you personally."

"You didn't just _hurt_ me, you murdered my father and ruined my life," her voice breaks, because she's no longer just angry. She's heartbroken, betrayed. Jaha had been her father's friend, her best friend's father, the man who came over for dinner every sunday and who let her beat him in chess. "He trusted you— _I_ trusted you. You could've warned him." It's selfish of her, to only want to save her father, she knows that. She's accepted that dark part of herself. Accepted that if she would have to make the choice between him and 200 others, she would save him.

Doubt washes over his face, and he opens his mouth but it takes a second for him to start speaking, a longer while for him to make sense to Clarke. "We did, but Jake had wanted to tell the others, too and that couldn't happen. Abby rightfully reasoned that if people were to find out, that would start an Uprising. An uprising would mean even more deaths, more than 200. He wouldn't listen and he was going to tell the mineworkers so we were forced to move up the timetable."

Her eyes search his face erratically, mind jumping with questions and disbelief and reproaches. Her eyes brim with tears, and she doesn't want to believe him, but she can't—she can't—her voice shakes, cutting through her own thoughts, "My mother knew?"

He stammers, for just a second and she's biting on her tongue until she tastes metal, trying not to listen to any of the words coming out of his mouth. "I'm sorry, Clarke. I thought you knew. She was still part of the town council back then. It made sense for her to know."

Clarke is at a loss for words. Her mother couldn't look at _her_? When she knew her father was going to die and she did nothing about it? How was _Clarke_ ever going to be able to look at her ever again?

His hand reaches out to comfort her, when a tear trails down her cheek, but she jerks away, voice steady and loud as she snaps, "Leave." He didn't have to ruin the last bit of sanity she had left, the last bit of unconditional love, last bit of trust.

"Clarke," he tries, obviously struggling with who he's always been to her, and who he is to her now. The problem is he's always been this person. She just didn't know.

She doesn't his comfort. Doesn't need his pity. "Leave."

And then he finally does and she can storm into her house, letting out a sob she'd been holding in for way too long. Bellamy sleeps with her in her bed that night, when she doesn't show, and he doesn't ask about it. She's not sure she could've told him anyway. She's not sure she wants it to be that real.

.

Eventually, everything catches up to her. All the pain and the sadness and the memories she'd been trying so hard to keep locked in, hid away—it became too much.

She's in the town square with Octavia, trading some meat for fruit, so they can make more jam. She just said something that made Clarke laugh when suddenly a girl stalks up to her. She's all long legs, olive skin and gorgeous eyes. She pulls roughly on her shoulder to make the blonde turn towards her.

Clarke looks at her surprised, brow furrowed together and about to ask her if they've met when the other girl lifts up her hand, and slaps her in the face. Hard, leaving the skin red and bruised. The victor's eyes burn with humiliated tears as the other girl hisses, "You're a murderer!" She's ready to charge again, eyes narrowed dangerously when she gets pulled away by a Peacekeeper. "He didn't have to die!"

She kicks, trying to break free from their grip, and screams, "It should've been you!" It echoes for a long time in her ears.

Clarke wants to protest, because she deserved that and there's no use for her to be lashed for it, but Octavia pulls on her arm, jaw ticking. People are staring. And it's never a good idea to attract attention. They only stop when they reach the front of the Blakes' house in the victor's village, and Clarke blinks up at it stupidly, avoiding the other girl's eye. She still doesn't know what just happened.

"That was Raven Reyes. She lives in the Seam," Octavia reveals, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm. She looks uncomfortable, tongue darting out to wet her lips, nose red from the cold. "She was Finn's girlfriend."

This makes Clarke's head jerk up sharply. "Before…?"

Octavia winces. "During."

She is a horrible person. Walking around here like she did him some big favor, like she deserves to be a victor, like she deserves to live. Pretending like, pretending like none of it happened.

"Look—" She starts, apologetic, but Clarke's already walking away to her own house. She crawls into her bed, crying soundlessly. No matter her intentions, no matter who forced her hand— _she is a murderer_. And it should have been her. She had no one left. Finn did.

There's a knock after a while, and she doesn't have to look up to know who it is. His sister must've told him what happened. The bed dips and she opens her eyes, leaning her head back against the headboard. She's made up her mind. "I have to leave."

He chuckles, low and dismal, as he brushes some wet hair back from her face. She's sweating, pulse a gallop. "Where you gonna go?"

"Anywhere," she answers, and she knows she must look crazy. With her wild eyes and tear stained cheeks and her clammy skin. She just can't stop thinking about everything that's gone wrong, so absolutely wrong, and being here like some sort of trophy, in the district where Finn also lived, where her mother killed her father, everywhere she looks there's somebody looking back at her who knows what she did and judges her for it, she feels like she's suffocating, all the time and she can't—she can't stay any longer.

"The woods?" He guesses, then huffs, indignant. "They'll find you." His stance softens when she doesn't budge, when he figures this isn't just a sudden emotional whim, or a spur of the moment decision. "You'll get through this, Clarke. Like you've done before."

Except now, there was no hope she actually would ever be okay. Not with Dante waiting for the right time to sell her to the highest bidder. Not in a world where her own mother could betray her father like that. Where she betrayed a girl she didn't even know so she had a better chance at staying alive. She was not a good person.

"I have to," she repeats, keeping her eyes trained on something over his shoulder. She can't look at him, because she's not strong enough and she might budge. She doesn't want to budge.

"Clarke," he breathes out, shakely. "If you need forgiveness, I'll give that to you." He repeats her own words back to her, runs a hand over her messy braid. His cheeks are wet. "You're forgiven, okay?"

He gets more desperate now, shifting closer to her. One hand is on her shoulder the other on her thigh. "Clarke," he croaks out again, desperate, "Please stay."

At her silence, he continues talking, not knowing how to change her mind, so trying everything instead. "It wasn't just you, okay? I've done terrible things, worse than you, even, and you wouldn't let me give up, either." Except he's paid his dues, and she still has to pay hers, on her own terms.

She squeezes her eyes shut, tears spilling out. He doesn't know half of it, wouldn't understand. "I'm sorry," is all she says, finally leaning up to press her lips against his cheek, arms snaking around his neck tightly. He pulls her closer, burying his face in her shoulder before breathing into her neck, choking back a sob, "You don't have to do this alone."

"Maybe I do," she reasons, quietly dismissing him, because this is her problem, these are her demons. She can't even stop hurting _him_. All she knows is that she can't drag him down with her, not when the consequences of leaving without permission are very deadly, and she'd rather die for being out there, than stay here. Not him though. Not him.

He suddenly pushes her off him, wiping at the wetness on his face angrily, eyes practically black, filled with hatred. He's angry, at her. She can't do anything but sit there, limply. He just shakes his head, then stalks out the room, slamming the door on his way out.

 _May we meet again._

She goes for miles and miles, just her and her backpack.

.

The first days, she sees Finn everywhere. Calling out her name, _I found you_ , hiding behind trees, waking up beside her. It's not like Raven's slap and the revelation that came with it suddenly made her snap and lose her mind and go delirious. It's everything.

The reminder that he'd had a life just like hers, a whole life in district twelve, and a girlfriend for God's sake! That it had been too easy for Clarke to forget this, push it to the back of her mind so her life was less difficult, so she could get a good night's rest or not cry whenever she saw fire or not scream. Her life didn't get to be easy. Not after what she did. Finn had so much to live for, and she had nothing left. She should've saved him. Should've died in that fire with the Careers.

What made her and her mother so different? She betrayed and used Finn for her own gain, her own survival as easily and cold hearted as her mother betrayed her father—and she _hated_ her mother. _It should've been you._ And then there was the always looming thought that—the mere thought—that the capital would come for her next, would make her comply in the worst way, the inescapability of it all. It felt like she was being strangled, locked up in the Victor's village all the time. She just had to, had to get out.

It's strange at first. Waking up without Bellamy by her side. He was always the best part of her day, her best friend, and now there's just nothing good left. It doesn't stop feeling strange, it never does, but it does get easier.

After a month of being on her own, of screaming into the nothingness, crying whole nights, ripping herself apart and putting herself back together, she decides to settle in an old shed, just off the district line of one of the districts. It looks like nobody's been inside for years, probably an old patrol post, before they moved the district lines a few years ago so the capital could expand.

It's two weeks of peaceful living, fishing by the lake and swimming to pass the time, before somebody has her pressed up the wall of her shed, blade pressing into the column of her neck, just a sliver of blood trickling down her collarbone.

"You're the one who burned three careers to death," she hisses, green eyes darkly meeting Clarke's blues. The girl is covered in soot, half of her brown hair pulled back from her face.

Clarke quirks an eyebrow, unimpressed. She's not that afraid of dying anymore these days. "You're the one who has a knife to my jugular."

She finally deflates, but her eyes stay narrowed at the blonde as she takes a reluctant step back. She tucks the knife back into her jacket, not letting her out of her sight. "You are foolish to come here."

She pulls a shirt over her head, luckily the sun dried her skin before she went inside. Absently, she asks, "Where is that, exactly?" She hadn't really kept track of where she'd gone or how many miles she'd walk. Most of it was a blur anyway.

As Clarke gets dressed, the other girl's eyes are on her moving form intently. She snarls, without much heat, more like it's part of who she is, "Trigedakru." It must mean she'd been toeing the line between district three and four, being so close to the lakes and all. It adds up.

"What are you doing here?" She counters with a question of her own, which Clarke guesses is fair.

"I could ask you the same," she says, finally, as she wrings out her hair, because she doesn't really have an answer for the stranger. She doesn't even know herself. "I'm pretty sure this is behind official borders."

"We train here," she replies, cold, straightening her shoulders. Pride? Clarke wonders. "The unfamiliar circumstances offer a much needed challenge."

Clarke nods in understanding. From what she remembers, district three handpicks children at an early age, too. During the rebellion, an old power plant blew up near their poorest villages, the explosion causing some sort of harmless genetic mutation that made people bleed very darkly, almost black. They call them natblidas and see them as some sort divine warriors. Clarke doesn't know much more about it, just that it is tradition that the children are taking out of their houses and school to train with other natblidas. Every few years, one of them volunteers. They're not as notorious as the careers, but they usually have a good shot at winning.

"You look horrible," the other girl tells her, and Clarke makes a curious noise in the back of her throat. Then chuckles. To be honest, she hadn't seen her own reflection in over a month. Living on nothing but plants and unprocessed trauma probably hadn't done her any favors either. She was probably right. Besides, she didn't have much energy to be offended at anything these days.

The brunette blinks at her for a second, then she's shrugging her backpack off her shoulders, crouching down to take something out of it. She holds out an apple for Clarke, who looks at her pensively, arms crossed over her shoulders.

She must sense her doubts. She rolls her eyes, impatient. "I've seen you in hand-to-hand combat. If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead." That's probably true, too.

Clarke took the apple, biting into it greedily, juice dripping down her chin. "I'm Clarke."

"I know that," she bites back, like it was an insult to even introduce herself. She sighs, loudly. For a second Clarke thinks she's just going to leave, then she says, "Lexa." Clarke smiles at that, and even though she tries to hide it, it's returned.

Lexa comes over pretty regularly after that, bringing her fruit and real vegetables that aren't just leaves, even though Clarke always refuses. It's nice, to have someone's company again. Even if it makes her heart ache in a familiar way.

One late afternoon, while they're both sitting on a log, staring out over the lake, arms flush against each other, she clears her throat. Uncharacteristically stiff, "So you and the boy? That was real?"

Lexa was usually very blunt, not so cryptic. She was very impressed by the victor life at first, which might be the entire reason she hadn't called the Peacekeepers on Clarke their first meeting, asked her a million questions about the arena, then backed off when she eventually realized the subject was a little bit too touchy for the victor. By then, they'd already gotten used to spending Lexa's sparse free moments with each other. Deep down, she missed the presence of other humans, and it wasn't like she had people lining up to be her friend. Nobody really came out here.

It takes her brain a second to catch up with the words, forehead creasing. Finn. Right. She still sees him sometimes, still hears him choke out ' _thanks, princess_ ', still feels his sticky blood on her hands. She clenches her jaw, hands tightening on the log, knuckles turning white. After a beat, she finally finds her voice. "I don't know." He _was_ , real. Uneasy, she settles on, "He was special."

They'd been sharing a delicious pear, Lexa slicing off pieces with her knife (she really loved that thing) and offering her every other one. This time, her hand freezes. "Oh," she says, stupidly.

Clarke's head shifts up to look at her, one eyebrow quirked in amusement. Lexa's jaw flexes, then she continues her movement, handing the blonde another chunk of pear. "I lost someone special to me, too."

Clarke is still looking at the side of her face, intrigued, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Yeah?" she pushes, when she doesn't continue. The sunlight catches Lexa's on her damp hair, still wet from their swim. The blonde takes in a sharp breath.

"Executed," she replies, flat, chewing on the fruit like she's telling her a story about doing groceries, or going to school. "She tried to stop me from volunteering last year. She gave me some tea so I would not be able to attend the Reaping. When they found out, they called it treason."

Clarke softens. "I'm sorry." She knows what it's like to carry around guilt.

She finally looks up, training her eyes on something in the distance as she licks her lips. "I thought I would never get over the pain, but I did."

"How?" She blurts out, voice raw. This catches Lexa's attention, and she regards her, impartial look in her eyes. Lifting one shoulder, she offers, "By recognizing it for what it is. Weakness."

"What is? _Love_?" Clarke retorts, startled. She frowns, incredulous. "So, you just stopped caring? About everyone?' The look on her face seems to indicate as much. The victor shakes her head. "I could never do that."

It's not that simple for her. It's not an on or off switch she can flip. If it was—she wouldn't feel so miserable all the time. If she shut off the bad parts, she couldn't have the good parts. And then she would have nothing to hold on to.

"Then you put the people you care about in danger and the pain will never go away," she says matter-of-factly. "The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry."

Clarke swallows hard, doesn't know what to say to that. Lexa licks some juice from her hand absently, then catches her watching her. The blonde quickly turns her head away, pretends to find her feet super interesting all of a sudden. Then a small hand wraps around her jaw, and Clarke has to hold back a flinch. She's not used to other people touching her so casually, besides Bellamy and her mother. And it's been a while.

Lexa searches her eyes, and apparently finds what she's looking for, leaning in to press her lips against Clarke's. Her eyes are round from surprise, and the brunette pulls back to blink at her curiously. She's pretty, so pretty, she thinks. Then Clarke smoothes some hair back from Lexa's face, before moving her hand to the back of her head, weaving her fingers through her wavy locks and pulling her back to her mouth swiftly.

Over the course of a month, Clarke starts to realize Lexa is honest to God going to volunteer, and thinks it's a good idea to try and convince her otherwise. It was easy to forget about at first, pretend they were just two regular teenagers, but then Lexa would boast about a tackle she made that day, or flip her knife in between her fingers, and Clarke would go cold all over.

It is none of her business really. Lexa owes her nothing. It's just… She got attached. To the moments when she would finally be able to make Lexa crack a smile, her warm body pressed against hers at night, the feel of brunette's pink lips against her own. She _likes_ Lexa. And the Games… The fucking Games took enough away from her.

So she can't help but try. They fight about it sometimes.

"Azgeda won't win this year," Lexa starts, yawning. She thinks about the Games a lot. "Ontari was the best of their entire selection.".

"Don't speak to me about her," Clarke warns, casting another stick into the fire in front of them, a little too angrily. Ontari wasn't hardly the best at anything, except for torturing innocent people for fun/ Lexa frowns, lifting her head from her shoulder. "She was an excellent fighter," she replies, a confusing tone to her voice. Like that should just be enough.

"She killed Myles," the blonde snaps back in return, fisting her hands into balls, nails digging into her flesh.

"And you killed her."

Clarke just huffs, not sure what to say to that, scowling. Lexa lets out a long breath, rubbing her temples. The fire crackles. She leans back on her hands as she purses her lips, "We do what we must to survive. The enemy does the same. It's nothing personal."

She laughs, coldly, the phrase reminding her oddly of someone else. _We're coming for you, twelve_. They targeted Myles, because of her. Tortured him. "It is to me."

Then Clarke stalks off into the woods. Lexa doesn't follow her, probably because she believes she's right and she's stubborn like that. Sometimes, she doesn't know how social interactions work. It's the day Clarke decides she has to go back, soon.

Other times, she's strangely understanding.

Lexa's floating on her back, eyes closed as she soaks up the sun. There's a cut on her cheek, from a sparring session with one of the natblidas that morning. It makes Clarke's jaw tick, as she stands in the water waist-deep staring at her, the rocks slippery and cold under her feet.

"What?" She sighs, peeking through one eye at the pensive look on Clarke's face.

"Lexa, I've been to an arena," she starts, amadant. She breathes through her nose loudly, as she tries to ignore the feeling of hands wrapped around her neck. "It's not an honor, or a—a virtue."

"You might be right," she argues, calmly. They must've had this argument a thousand times. Then she closes her eyes again. "But this is what my people have always done. It's tradition. You need to accept that."

"I can't just let you volunteer," she croaks out, lip trembling against her better wishes. It's almost offending, how much Lexa glorifies these Games, like they're her only purpose in life and are going to change her life for the better. She just wants to make her understand—the blood and the fear and the screams. The screams are the worst.

Lexa shifts, slowly standing up in the water, too. She presses her lips against Clarke's, trying to knot through the knots in her hair. She doesn't bother braiding it these days. Lexa looks down at the water, sighs as she moves her hand through it absently. "It's my fate. You must."

Clarke's face scrunches up and she opens her mouth to protest when Lexa kisses her again. Softly, she declares, "You're driven to fix everything for everyone, Clarke. You can't fix this. I have to do this on my own and you have to let me." She's _so_ frustrating sometimes, but it's hard to stay mad.

She swallows, hard, her throat constricting with emotions as she leans her head against Lexa's shoulder, pressing her nose into her neck. "You'll win," she decides, even if that won't make a difference. _You don't win the Games_.

Lexa presses a kiss to the crown of her head, hands resting on her waist squeezing lightly. "Of course I will. You haven't seen me fight but I'm the best there ever was." She's probably right, too.

(Once only, Clarke cracked. It'd been harder to stop thinking about it at night, when it was harder for her brain to differentiate between what was real and what wasn't, for it to think she was back in the arena, for it to keep up the defensive walls she worked so hard on to get up around her heart these past few weeks. Maybe even for longer than that, maybe even since she felt Atom's pulse flutter under her fingers.

"Please don't volunteer," Clarke had whispered into the dark, eyes fixed onto the ceiling to keep from brimming over with tears. Lexa stops kissing her stomach abruptly, pausing to look up at her through her lashes. Her green eyes draw in all the moonlight, brow creased slightly in confusion.

She hadn't said anything at first. She just sighed, pulling Clarke's shirt down to cover her chest as she'd slid up against her side. The brunette leaned her head into the crook of her neck, soft, as she reached over to smooth some hair from her face. It felt a little unnatural for Lexa to be tactile in such a gentle way. She'd sighed again, then, so quiet Clarke would've missed it on a heavy exhale, "I care about you."

It'd been the only thing Lexa could truly offer her, because she couldn't ask what Clarke had asked of her. It's almost cruel, to lead her on like that, she'd thought. Did she think she was stupid? Clarke laughs, spiteful, a tear escaping down her temple. "I thought you didn't care about anyone." She quickly wipes it away, hoping Lexa hadn't caught it. She'd felt so stupid, _weak_.

The younger girl had stretched her neck to connect their lips, the hand furthest away from her coming up to bracket her face. Clarke hadn't reacted, stiff under her touch. She'd pulled away with a frown, swallowing tightly, then adding, gentle, "You are special." Clarke blinked at her, knowing she wouldn't use the words so casually, wouldn't use them like this when they both knew what they meant. She'd pecked her lips another time, thumb warm on her cheek, and pecked her mouth again and again until Clarke reciprocated, the latter's hand snaking up to wrap around her wrist, pulling her closer. They'd stayed like that for a while.

Clarke's heart stopped cold at her next supposedly reassuring words, whispered against her mouth. "Death is not the end."

It was probably supposed to be some hopeful, comforting phrase in Lexa's logic, but for Clarke it was a stark reminder that nothing she said was going to make any difference, and she was back to being powerless once again, so helpless, a blunt contradiction to her own hope and feelings, that sometimes, all she hoped was that death _was_ the end, that it would all finally end one day.

They didn't talk about it again.)

The reaping is coming closer and closer, and Clarke knows she has to go back sooner or later now, before they tear the country apart looking for her. So she does.

.

After a long trek, she arrives home two weeks before the 74th Hunger Games.

Octavia immediately engulfs her into a hug, pressing her face into her neck, beaming. "I'm glad you're not dead."

"Me too," she replies without much conviction, squeezing her once before letting go. Maybe one of these days she'll mean it. She studies the house, realizing it still looks exactly the same. Octavia's stupid cat Skye even nuzzles her leg like she never left. When she doesn't crouch down fast enough to pet her, she screeches, retracting her claws into her skin. Clarke scowls, hissing as she pushing her away with her foot. She turns back to study the room.

"He's not here," Octavia announces, knowingly as she picks up the feline and cradles him to her chest. She quirks an eyebrow as Clarke looks at her, feigning confusion like she doesn't know exactly what and who Octavia is talking about. "Bellamy is out hunting a mountain lion with some other people. It's been terrorizing the Seam, killed two people." She scratches Skye under her chin, and it spins appreciatively. "He probably won't be back until late."

"I wasn't…" She starts but Octavia cuts her off with a pointed look. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. Maybe she was, she doesn't even know herself.

"So…" The other girl drawls, suspiciously trying to hide a grin. "How about you bake me some of those sticky buns?" Clarke deflates and Octavia bounces up and down, she pouts, almost whines, "Pretty, pretty _please_?" She even uses the cat's paw to emphasize every word, moving it up and down.

Clarke laughs, hooking an arm around her neck as she leads her outside, to her own house. Which is probably still the same, too. "So when you said you were glad I wasn't dead, what you really meant was you only missed me for my buns?"

Octavia snorts, the hand of the arm wrapped around her back snaking down to pat her on the butt, making her yelp in response. "Oh Clarke. You _know_ I only love you for your buns."

Both of them spend a few hours fucking around in the kitchen. The sticky buns they end up with aren't her best, but Octavia covered head to toe in flour is the funniest thing ever and she's laughed out loud for maybe the first time in months.

She's chewing on a mouthful as Octavia shoves an entire bun into her mouth, making Clarke crack up even louder. "You're disgusting."

"Your mom is disgusting," she replies, almost automatically as she swallows a big bite of food painfully, licking off her fingers anyway.

"O? Are you here? I _thought_ I heard voices," it's Bellamy, as he pushes open the front door. Her heart pounds loudly in sync with his footsteps. "Why the hell are you in he—" He stops dead in his tracks in the doorway, eyes flicking over from his sister to her and back.

Her laughter falters immediately, as she reaches up to swipe some hair from her face nervously as she offers him a tight lipped smile. Stupidly, she holds up her hand in a waving gesture.

He looks good, so good. A rush of warmth spreads across Clarke's chest, _she'd missed him_. There's some greasy stains on his neck and over his arms, probably from being in the woods all day, his curls a mess on top of his head. His olive skin even more freckled then she'd remembered, probably from the long of hours sun.

He just stands there, dropping his bow and arrow at his feet, making a small gruffing noise in the back of his throat which she figures is his way of recognizing her greeting. Carefully, she moves over to stand in from of him, wiping her sticking fingers on the back of her pants. She doesn't know how much he's able to give right now, probably upset, but she figures she'll start with a hug and they'll see after that.

He hugs her back when she wraps her arms around him almost robotically, not sure how to act around him anymore, a tension in his shoulders that makes her feel uneasy. She didn't think they would ever really forget how to do this, be _them_ , but she guesses things changed.

There's a blank look on his face except his jaw flexing as she pulls back to look at him, and Octavia mutters something about a shower as she picks up Skye and bolts out of there.

"What are you doing here?" He snaps, harshly, and she winces. She knew she hurt him when she left, and he was right to be mad, but she'd never imagined he'd be this closed off to her. He'd always been so forgiving, when it came to her.

She doesn't know why he's trying so hard to hurt her, push her away. She swallows, thickly, crossing her arms over her chest only to uncross them. Shifting on her feet uncomfortably as she finally lifts her head up to look at him again, slightly tilted. "I just thought—"

Something dark washes over him, like he'd decided to be polite up until this point but couldn't anymore, that the sound of her voice was the final straw.

"What? That you'd just come back after months and everything would go back to normal?" He cuts her off, pained. "That everything would just fall right into place for our princess, _the victor._ " The tone in his voice is shockingly hateful, almost repulsed. He knows how to hurt the worst. It's like being stabbed all over again, chest tight with anguish. _The victor_.

"This isn't who you are," she presses hoarsely, voice breaking. _Who you are and who you have to be to survive are two very different thing_ s, how those words had given her so much comfort, did even now, when he hadn't owed her anything back then; she thinks of what he must've done to get her those sponsors in the arena; the sound of his heartbeat thumping against his chest, pressed against her ear; the softness in his eyes when he looked at her sometimes; all the times he talked her down when she had a nightmare.

Her eyes burn with unshed tears, and she might actually let out a sob, but he doesn't seem to care, eyes hard. "You're wrong," he breathes sharply, scowling, stepping dangerously close. His eyes are fixed intently on hers, but they're strangely empty. "This is who I've always been." Then he brushes past her, slamming the door on his way out.

She refuses to believe that. In hindsight, she wasn't thinking clearly when she left. How could she have been? All she could be was selfish right then. She needed that. But she's back now. He might've given up on her, but she isn't giving up on him.

.

Sterling Fry and Fox Thaler. District twelve's tributes for the 74th Hunger Games. Clarke's hands had been shaking during the entire reaping, even from her spot on the other side on the stage, even when she had no up for selection that she cared about.

It's still shaking when she takes hold of Bellamy's, putting him to a halt, when they're about to step out on the platform and onto the train, meet their tributes. Her first. Anya was probably already raiding the bar inside.

"Tell me what to do," she begs, voice trembling embarrassingly. She wants to cry, but she can't. Not now. Not today. Not when there's two kids waiting on her inside that train, counting on her to be the best version of herself, counting on her to help them, help them win.

"You always seem to get by just fine on your own," he huffs, almost accustory and her hand slips down, hanging limp at her side. She clenches her jaw for just a second.

Her head tilts slightly as she searches his eyes, for some sort of sign he's still in there, pained expression on her face. "Bellamy, I'm sorry, okay?" She pleads, almost desperate for him to understand, to forgive her. "I did what I had to do. To survive." She smiles weakly. "But I'm back now. And I'm stayi—" He doesn't let her finish.

"That's bullshit and you know it. You don't get to throw that back in my face," he snaps, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "You don't _get_ to decide that it's all okay now, just because you're back. I trusted you." His voice breaks. "I let you in."

She shakes her head, roughly, squeezing her eyes shut to keep from crying. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to tell him, how to make it right. She never thought—if she'd known that this—if she'd known she would've never left. "Bellamy," she breathes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Why did you come back, Clarke?" He dismisses her, quietly, like he's no longer angry. Which might be worse. He shakes his head slightly, in disbelief. Like she couldn't possibly come back to him without an angle, something up her sleeve. Couldn't just come back because she missed him. Which wasn't the biggest reason, but it didn't make it less true. She did miss him while she was gone, still missed him now, painfully so.

Her resolve deflates. "I need you," she tries, weakly, final plea, final argument. The one thing she wished she didn't have to reveal. She had no choice now.

"You need me?" He questions, warily, voice shaking with anger. His eyes are glazy. She flinches, but manages to remain a facade of calmth as she watches him. "You left me."

It hurts, it hurts so much.

"I do. I _need_ you," she protests, angry. Mostly at herself, for letting it come to this, but also at him. At his stupid stubbornness. This isn't just about them. This is also about those two kids inside that train. "I need the guy who told me not go into that arena thinking I was going to die, who told me I was brave when I needed it the most, told me my nightmares weren't real over and over—"

He shakes his head, barely, his eyes narrowed as he cut her off, commanding, "Enough, Clarke." He turns away from her briefly, trying to collect himself as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He shifts back around, still heated, resentful. "Forget me. You never thought to consider what they might do to Octavia? You were willing to let them punish the people you care about just so _you_ could forget about _your_ pain?" She opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn't stop there, eyes wet and piercing right through her. "She is my _sister_."

They stare at each other for a moment, both on the verge of tears, chests moving up and down rapidly. Finally, she breaks, choking on a sob. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving. I thought I could, because you had each other." It's not the same, it's never was.

He exhales, sharply, stepping closer to her. His shoulders deflate as he looks at her, something a whole lot like longing buried deep inside. He swallows thickly, hand tentatively reaching for hers, sliding his fingers around her palm. The corners of her lips lift up weakly, as a compromise. His thumb brushes her skin lightly, almost comforting and God, she's missed him so much. Misses him still.

He wets his lips, eyes flickering down to their hands for just a second before his brow creases as he looks up at her, gaze hardening. "You don't have to worry about the tributes. They'll be better off without you." With that, he drops her hand roughly, and stalks out of the room, heading for the train.

Dumbly, she stares at the door for a moment or two, stomach churning like she might throw up any second now. Then, she sniffs, wiping her tears with her palms. Whether he likes it or not, she's got a job to do.

.

Sterling and Fox are both fifteen years old. Sterling is quiet and resigned, Fox is a blubbering mess from the second her name was called. They have a hard time during training, an even harder time during the interviews. Evaluation day ends with a score of three, Fox, and five, Sterling. They don't really stand the ghost of a chance, but Clarke can't help but try. Despite her best efforts not to, she likes them.

She tells them about the arena, how to find shelter, how to keep warm, tells them who and what to avoid, tells them to stick together, even if Bellamy's already told them, twice and probably a whole lot better than her. Tells them to find Lexa, that she'll keep them safe.

(Lexa found her, backstage during the interviews. She was wearing a beautiful sleek black dress, hair half-up like always. Dark streaks around her eyes, a natblida tradition.

"Your partner just made that girl cry for the third time in the last five minutes," she'd said in lieu of an hello, standing next to her with her arms crossed over her chest casually as she'd looked over at Bellamy and Fox. She was a crier, Clarke didn't think that there was anything any of them could say that would change that.

"He's doing a better job than I am," she'd chuckled nervously, because of the proximity and because she felt like the worst mentor in victor history ever. Except for maybe Anya. She'd leaned away from Lexa, not wanting anyone to get the wrong idea. Not wanting them to whisper her dirty little secrets to Wallace, mostly.

The corners of Lexa's mouth had turned up, but her expression was sour. "You have faith in him." It had not really been a question, but she'd felt obligated to answer. She'd glanced over at him quickly, for just a second—he was still talking to Fox in a low voice with his hand on her shoulder reassuringly as he towered over the young girl—but it's long enough for Lexa to take notice. "I do."

"Can you keep them safe?" She'd whispered, low, before her brain could even fully register what she was asking of Lexa. Then again, it made sense. Lexa could make sure they stood a chance.

"Clarke," she starts, uneasy but Clarke's hands fold around her forearm against her better judgement, squeezing softly. "Please? I'm just asking you to let them in your alliance, just until the first half of the tributes is gone. Just until the worst is over. I don't want them to be used in another ploy in their Games, like Myles was. To die before they've even had a chance. Then you can cut them lose and they can fend for themselves."

After a tense moment, she sighs, nods once just barely, lips pressed together tightly. "Okay.")

Nothing feels enough, though, it never does. Really, Clarke is powerless once again. Powerless as she watches them on the screen from the tributes centre, holed up in their apartment for hours now. They'd both survived the initial bloodbath, their arena a frozen wasteland with just caves and large mountains to hide in and after, too many of the tributes slipping and falling on the ice to really kill anyone. These games weren't going to break a record for longest running time, that was for sure.

Bellamy was the epitome of calmth on the couch, elbows bracketed on his knees, Anya stretched out beside him with a arm slung over her eyes as she slept. Clarke finally stopped pacing in front of the television, deciding to get some fresh air on the balcony to kill some of her anxiety.

When she steps back inside, Bellamy's tense, foot now tapping nervously. When Clarke follows his line of sight her heart skips a beat when she sees Lexa on the screen. She lets out a small shaky breath, sinking down on the couch beside her fellow mentors, not taking her eyes off her for even a second. There's just the sound of Anya's snoring filling the room and the howling of the TV as it shows another snow storm building up, her tributes' faces red from the cold.

Sterling has Fox's arm draped over his shoulder, after she hurt her ankle earlier slipping on the ice, as they approach Lexa. They exchange some words, but Clarke's heart is pounding too loudly in her head for her to really register it. The brunette flexes her jaw, then takes out her knife. Clarke's eyes widen as she sits up, shifting closer to the television.

She guts Sterling first. Fox tries to scramble away but it's no use, especially not injured, holding up a hand to keep Lexa at a distance as she cries for mercy, the other one supporting her weight on the icy ground. She kneels down, guts her too. Her hands don't even shake when she pulls out the knife, wiping her hand on her jacket, black face paint stained around her eyes, "Your fight is over."

Her ally, Dakiva from Azgeda, district one, sends her an impressed look, tucking away her own sword. It was smart, to align herself with her. Obviously the Ice Nation girl had an edge on everyone else with them being on the ice. She would get Lexa far.

"They were dead anyway," Lexa tells her solemnly, somebody else's blood splattered on her face, even if the other girl is already moving ahead on the slope of ice. Clarke lets out a guttural scream, throws the first things she sees (an empty glass) at the TV as liquid drips down her cheeks. It shatters into a million pieces loudly as Clarke's chest heaves up and down heavily, one hand pressed against her forehead, the other on her hip trying to control her breathing.

Bellamy just regards her quietly, hands clasped together in between his knees, looking resigned but pained as Anya snuggles closer to the couch, pulling a pillow to her chest. She re-closes her eyes, brows creased and nose scrunched in annoyance, directing the male victor, "Tell your girlfriend to throw her tantrum in the privacy of her own room."

"I'm sorry," Clarke bites, sarcastically, seeing red, remembers what Lexa told her, a flash of blood dripping down Sterling's chin, the strangled 'no' Fox let out. "I'm sorry for being _weak_." Then she storms out, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Despite her best efforts, her tributes died. That year's winner is from district four. Her name is Luna.

.

To make matters worse, Dante Wallace won't leave her the fuck alone. He's convinced she's some holy figure of change for the people—well, she never asked for that.

He'd cornered her right before she was supposed to leave for the train station, wanted to discuss a _successful_ 74th Games. She hadn't really been listening to his monologue until he said, "It's a shame your girlfriend had to die. She was very talented."

Clarke's head snaps up in surprise and he smirks, deliberately. "You think we didn't know? That we didn't follow your every move?" He tuts disapprovingly. "I expected more from my favorite victor."

It takes everything in her not to shudder in disgust, fingernails curling into her palms, the sharp pressure helping her contain a string of curse words she's thought up to describe him.

"You don't go anywhere without my permission," he states, almost happily. He's enjoying this, watching her squirm. "People still follow you, Clarke. You don't know the effect you have."

She huffs coldly and his grin widens, amused. "People see your compassion as a deliberate act of defiance. One little dwindling tear on your face at the victor's celebration party when they replayed your tributes' deaths and uprisings are happening all over at least four of my districts."

"I didn't know," she defends herself, lamely. Is she really apologizing for being human now? Is that really where they've set the bar? Maybe they all deserve to die. "That the cameras were on me."

"They always are, Clarke," he hisses, then straightens his jacket, like he's trying to compose himself as he works up another repulsive grin. "You were just a little spark at first, a little fleck of dust on my radar, a nuisance." He narrows his eyes. "Then they made you out to be some sort of symbol and it turned into a fire. The girl on fire. I thought I'd squashed that fire, and that girl, during your victory tour. Apparently it turns out your lies weren't convincing enough."

"That's not my fault," she bites back, without thinking and she might actually be about to draw blood, pain in her palms spreading to her entire hands now, shooting up her arms.

"Oh, but it is," he chuckles, all the blood draining from her face at his tone. "You are the cause of all of this. You started this with your foolish lies in the arena." His eyes turn into slits, and his voice gets louder and louder, hands flat on the table as he rises to his feet, "Every innocent person that dies during these uprisings, any one of these fools I have to execute because they truly believe you could make a difference, every person in your life that you care about and that I have to get rid of to make you understand—that's all on you." His grin returns shakily, suddenly seeming to remember she can't know she's under his skin as he reaches for his handkerchief, wiping some spit from his chin.

She stays quiet, as he sinks back down in his chair, just watching him with a repugnant gaze. She was a symbol now? People really thought she could—she could change anything with the cameras right up in her face. They were wrong. She'd just tried to change the lives of two children, and she couldn't even do that.

"You better find a way to dampen the flames, Clarke. Or I'm going to have to do it for you," he informs her simply, and it's a threat as clear as day. "You're still popular, even in Polis, so I can't keep you out of the public eye yet. Thus every interview you do, every highlight real you appear in, every local appearance you make—from this point on, you better be on your best behaviour. If this turns into a war, try and remember it'll be the people in twelve who'll suffer."

Clarke clenches her jaw, voice sharp and eyes cold, "Why don't you just murder me?" At this point she's lost everything. She lost her home, her job, herself, sweet Madi, Finn happened, then she lost Wells, her mom, Bellamy, her tributes, Lexa—what even was her purpose at this point? Why did she even bother drawing a breath?

He almost laughs at that, the sound turning into a cough as he presses his handkerchief to his mouth, the material staining red. "At this point your death would just make me the perfect scapegoat for those so-called rebels. It'll spark more uprisings, and at one point, they'll turn uncontrollable." His smile turns cold. "But believe me when I say there's nothing I'd rather do, and if you don't give me another choice, I promise I will find a way."

.

She's been in a foul mood for days now, maybe weeks. It was easier to direct her anger at someone else, than at herself. For ever being so naive, for caring so much, for not just dying in those fucking Games.

"Bellamy won't talk to you so I guess I have to," Octavia finally snaps one evening during dinner, putting down her spoon loudly. Clarke was really only there because Octavia told her brother to deal with it and she might do even more stupid things on her own.

Bellamy almost chokes on his stew, pressing a napkin to his mouth as his eyes dart anywhere but on her. She ignores it. If he didn't want to be her friend, she wasn't going to push it anymore. No matter how badly she resented all of this. Octavia glares at her. "What would you have done in her shoes? Would you have chosen differently?"

She must've caught on most of her anger was directed at Lexa nowadays. She was an easy target, not there to defend herself. It also helped to not hate herself as much, even though she could still do both at the same time.

"I don't betray innocent people," Clarke hits back, angrily as she shoves her chair back from the table. She's not so hungry anymore, she decides as she gets up, cutlery clattering against her bowl.

"But you did, Clarke," Octavia counters, stopping her dead in her tracks. Bellamy inhales sharply, and it almost sounds like a warning. She wants to yell at him to open his fucking mouth for once, but she's too busy narrowing her eyes at his sister. "Everyone in those Games was innocent, too. Just like you."

"That's not on me," she argues, coldly. She didn't want to kill them. She had to. There was a difference. And Lexa had _promised_ her. "That's on Wallace. The only difference is she had no honor, and I had no choice."

"She was your girlfriend, Cl—"

Bellamy stands up suddenly, mumbling something about his appetite being lost as he disappears outside. He still won't even look at her. Octavia hesitates for a second before moving to close the distance between her and Clarke, there's a different kind of anger in her eyes now, arms crossed over her chest and entire stance defensive. Quietly but persistent, she tells her, "You really hurt him, Clarke."

"I am doing the best I can," she retorts, voice shaky, not prepared for the sudden change of subject. She knew that. She did. She couldn't keep apologizing if he wouldn't even talk to her, didn't even want to be in the same room with her alone for longer than the moment it took him to realize someone left and it was now just the two of them. He was stubborn like that.

"Yeah, well, it's not good enough," she lashes out, and for a second, Clarke wonders if she might hit her over the head with a chair. The Blake temper never ceases to amaze her. Then she deflates, gritting her teeth together.

"I know Lexa told you love is weakness," she declares, startling Clarke to a point she's literally gaping at the other girl. It's not fair. For her to use something Clarke had admitted to her on a drunken stupor after the Games against her. "Because the capital will find a way to hold it against you."

The victor's nostrils flare, shoulders tense. Octavia sighs, "But Clarke," she swallows, thick, shifting closer, hand pressed tight to her forearm. "If it wasn't for love, I would be dead right now."

If there's one thing the entirety of Panem knew about Bellamy Blake it was that he loved his sister more than he loved himself, even if that probably wasn't hard for him. He sacrificed his life for hers, and asked for nothing in return but for her to live a happy, healthy life.

That was the good part of love. Clarke only seemed to know the ugly parts nowadays.

She blinks up at Clarke, thumb smoothing over her skin comfortingly, face bear and green eyes clear and bright, a small smile forming on her lips, "And if I was dead, who would be here to kick some sense into your ass?"

Clarke finally breaks out into a small watery laugh at that, and the other girl leans up brush her blonde hair from her face with both hands before hugging her, forcefully. "You'll be okay, Clarke." When she sniffs embarrassingly pathetic into her shoulder, Octavia tightens her grip, arms circled around her waist. "You will be. And so will he."

That night, she stands in front of her bathroom mirror and still doesn't recognize the girl she was before the Games. She guesses she might never get her back. Too much has happened. She leans down to wash her tear streaked face, eyes red and swollen, and when she looks back up, she jumps, meeting Lexa's gaze in the mirror.

She stares at the reflection with round eyes, blinking a few times and convincing herself it isn't real, can't be real, _she saw her die_ , until her mouth starts moving, "I never meant to turn you into this." Clarke puts her hands to her ears, squeezing her eyes shut, screaming for it to stop until it's raw and painful, but—Lexa's voice is still there, repeating it over and over and over and over until she reaches out to slam her hand against the mirror.

It shatters into a million pieces, pain spreading across her hand but Clarke can only sigh in relief as it's finally quiet. Finally she's gone. She sinks down onto the edge of the tub with a thud, cradling her hand to her chest as she stars at the blood dripping down the mirror and into the sink. She doesn't know how long she sits there before there's a knock on the door.

She would sooner expect Anya to be at her door telling her to shut the hell up than to find him in her doorway, but there he is. Bellamy.

"You don't look so great, princess," he says quietly as he stands in front of her, and she can't disagree with him. For one, because he's probably right—she looks like a mess. Secondly, he addressed her directly for the first time in weeks, and even called her princess. This might be a fever dream at this point, but she'll take it. Tentatively, he reaches out to wipe some damp hair from her sweaty forehead, shaking his head lightly.

"You should see the other guy," she jokes, flatly, hissing as she flexes her hand too much. The numbness has faded almost completely now, no longer masking the pain.

He grins though, and it might be the best thing she's ever seen in her entire life. His hands drops down to take her hand and examine it carefully in his. Then he lets go—and Clarke almost whimpers at the loss of contact as she bites down on her tongue to keep from doing so—taking a step back.

He opens up her bathroom cabinet and rumbles through it for a few seconds before he's back, kneeling down in front of her with old linen washcloths. He wetted one of them, uses it to clean up around the cuts on her knuckles, some deeper than others. She winces a little at the pressure now and then, and he watches her expressions attentively to make sure he's not doing too much damage.

Finally, he tears up a piece of the other cloth to wrap it around her hand carefully. She lets him, even though she will probably have to redo it later. He's way too gentle to be a healer, she knows that much.

He's still clutching her hand in his when he blinks up at her through his thick black lashes, freckles scattered across his skin. How he can look so good in the fluorescent bathroom lights remains a mystery. There's an ambiguous look on his face for a moment, then his tongue darts out to wet his lips, which is incredibly distracting.

"I was so angry at you for leaving," he admits, darkly. His jaw clenches, then unclenches. She swears his eyes are glazed over with tears. "I don't want to feel that way anymore."

She offers him a tight lipped smile, doesn't want to push him. A tear finally falls down his cheek and he wipes it away with the back of his hand hurriedly, sniffing before giving her a shaky, watery grin, "Looks like you could use a drink."

All this time, she's tried so hard, not to care, not to be weak. Tried to think of friends and people she cares about as liabilities, told herself she would only bring them pain and misery. She got hurt one too many times. He would always be her exception though. She loves him. A lot. He's her best friend. Right now, it's impossible to not want to kiss him, too, like an always slumbering urge that she didn't ever want to give too much thought, didn't have space left to think about, not with everything else going on.

It's not the first time it crosses her mind. Of course she had noticed the way he looked at her sometimes. _Of course_. She's even pretty sure she looked at him like that more often than not. She couldn't take the risk though, couldn't risk him.

Her grin widens, his thumb caressing the back of her hand, and she might be crying, too. "I think we both could."

.

Her yearly interview with Cage is up three months before the 75th Hunger Games. Usually, he rotates every remotely interesting victor through the period of time in between games, after the people in Polis become bored with the newest one. They always get bored, it's never enough. They can't just let it be, leave her alone.

Lincoln and the rest of the prep-team come over to her house though, and it's nice to see him again, at least. He's her friend.

They chalk up her face with too much makeup, straighten her unruly blonde locks until the entire house smells like burnt hair and dress her up in baby pink clothes that are itchy and uncomfortable. Probably have to make her look light and unaccommodating to further the narrative that she isn't worth shit—that she could never lead a rebellion. She hopes it works, because she isn't in the mood for more one-on-one conversations with President Wallace.

"Nice look, princess," Bellamy had snorted when she retreated down the steps. She'd flipped him off, skin still raw and red from the intense and thorough scrubbing Lincoln's assistants had given her hours ago. The capital really thought every district twelve citizen was a new kind of filthy.

They'd been good, these past few months. It wasn't hard to fall back into their old routine, eating breakfast together without a constant murderous tension dampening the mood; painting him as he read to her from one of his history books; baking him his favorites (mostly cinnamon and cheese buns); falling asleep at each other's houses and in each other's arms. (He would always forgive her, for anything, she'd realized one night, ear pressed again his chest, a bitter taste in her mouth. She wish he didn't give her so much power over him.)

Clarke fucks up. She always does though, so it doesn't come as much of a surprise.

Cage had been a slimey douchebag for all of thirty minutes now as she gave him a tour of her house. She could take it, she really could, not used to any other behaviour from him.

"So, Clarke," he sneers, obviously trying to rattle her, trying to get his views up probably. How the capital citizens weren't bored of _him_ yet remained a mystery. Nepotism maybe. "A little birdie told us you went on a little tour of the districts last year. Were you on your own?"

"Yes," she answers warily, posture stiff as she eyes the cameras and tries to keep her face straight.

"Did you visit Madi's district as well?" She feels suffocated in her own hallway, too many people from the capital are surrounding her and she can't quite catch her breath at the moment. He turns to the nearest camera, addresses it directly. "That's Madi Hillyard from district eight, for some of you who might not remember. Not too difficult to imagine, considering she didn't leave much of an impression on most."

"You didn't know her," Clarke snaps, jaw tense at the implication. She didn't know Madi long, but deserved better than this. To speak so ill of the death—it just confirmed that he was a special kind of asshole. "She wasn't just an ally. She was my friend." Her face softens, scrunched up in pain as she reminisces, "I still draw her sometimes. Her kind, nervous smile. She was sweet. _Brave._ " She chuckles, low and sad. "She was too young, too gentle. I couldn't save her and—and she died in vain."

Her face contorts as she realizes what she just said, and Cage looks pleased. This hadn't been his angle, probably had wanted to prod at her about Lexa even though he had no proof, been building up to that reveal, and instead of a stupid rumour about her love life, she'd given him her own death sentence.

He quirks an eyebrow and she has to ball her fist to keep herself from punching him in the face. "You're saying the Games don't serve a collective purpose?" She shakes her head, more at herself, mouth like chalk. No matter what she says, the damage has already been done. "Did you _not_ just imply she died in vain?" He presses, delirious with amusement.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, quickly, pressing a hand to her head. She can't think straight. "I don't feel so well. I think I have to lay down."

Of course they don't re-air the segment, and only a handful of people probably saw it live, but that's the thing about scandals, once they're out, they spread like wildfire just fine on their own. And once a spark becomes a flame, it's too hard to contain. Wallace isn't too happy with her, she doesn't need a private rendez-vous with him to confirm that.

For the first few weeks, Clarke is constantly looking over her shoulder, her nightmares are at their all time worst and she has a panic attack every other day. Bellamy knows something is up, but she can't bring herself to tell him. This is her problem. Eventually, it gets easier to breathe again. She knows better than to think there won't be any retaliation, but she thinks that maybe he's saving it for something special.

That something special eventually comes at the announcement of the Quarter Quell, a celebratory Games hosted every 25 years to mark the anniversary of the districts' defeat by Polis during the Rebellion.

There's a gala, a party at Wallace's private residence in Polis that all the victors have to attend, along it's most famed and powerful citizens, that week. _A celebration_ , President Wallace had toasted with his eyes locked firmly on her face, _for 75 years without a Rebellion_.

She downs her entire glass of champagne with one gulp, causing Bellamy to laugh lowly in her ear as he leads her away from the crowd, hand on the small of her back. The top of his fingers brush her bare skin, exposed by her backless bright red dress. "Calm down. This night is going to be even longer if I don't have you here because you're stuck in the bathroom puking your guts out."

She takes another glass of the tray of passing server, sending him a pointed look over the rim of the drink. He stares right back, unimpressed. She rolls her eyes, lowering her glass as she gives in. "Fine, but you're dancing with me."

Anya stalks over, looking gorgeous in her tight dress, a slit running up her leg, matching the color of Clarke's dress. District colors. Bellamy's in a black tux, which, he looks frustratingly good in, by the way.

"They fucking cut me off," she growls. She yanks the drink from the blonde's hand and downs it quickly, pulling Bellamy's half-full glass out of his hand next, downing that one as well. She burps, loud and brazen, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Miraculously, her red lipstick doesn't stain.

Anya closes her eyes in ecstasy for a moment, leaning on Clarke, exhaling loudly. Then, her eyes snap open. "Good to know you two are still good for something." She pats the other female victor on the shoulder, taps Bellamy on the nose and then leaves.

She's still gaping over at Anya's retreating form when she informs him, with a small uncomfortable laugh, "Okay, now you're definitely dancing with me."

He sighs, but lets her pull him to the dancefloor anyway. They can make her go to this stupid mandatory party all they want, but she refuses to have fun. That's where she draws the line. She can get comfortable though, and the best way to do that is to spend time with her best friend.

He takes her hand, the other low on her back—always at a respectable height which may or may not annoy her—and she places her free one on his shoulder. They sway like that for a while, Bellamy trying to distract her by telling her embarrassingly dumb gossip stories about the Polis citizens, shittalks some of the other victors—mostly the ones who took the victor life a little too seriously.

She notices though. Bellamy is antsy the entire time, eyes darting around the room, hand clam in hers, and she realizes it must not be easy for him to be here, surrounded by people that have used him or still want to use him, look at him like he's something to be owned. That paid money to—just thinking about it makes her feel queasy.

She shortens the distance between them, though, as the song slows down, finding it a viable enough of an excuse to rest her head on his shoulder. His heart thu-thumps loudly under her ear and he squeezes her fingers, as much of a thank you as she's going to get.

His fingers start trailing over her bare skin ever so lightly, knuckles brushing against her spine. The hairs of the back of her neck stand up straight, pulse a gallop as she swallows thickly.

She lifts her head reluctantly, pulls back a little. She stares up at him, as they both stand still on the middle of the dance floor surrounded by dancing couples dumbly, her mouth dry. This really isn't the time, nor the place, yet here they are.

"Clarke," he croaks out, husky, pupils dilated. She flushes all over. Then someone taps him on the shoulder and Clarke looks over his shoulder angrily, eyes narrowed, Bellamy sending her a pointed look as he turns to the man she doesn't recognize. "May I?"

"Please," Bellamy answers, voice still gruff as he clears his throat, barely glancing over at her before he disappears towards the provisions table. She blinks, and then he's suddenly out of her direct line of sight. It makes her feel uneasy, especially at a place like this.

Clarke must still be looking for wherever Bellamy went because the man laughs, startling her. "You seem distracted."

"No, it's fine," she squeaks out, quickly as she turns her face to him. They were _kind of_ in the middle of something, but God knows who this man is. He might be Wallace's even more evil fraternal twin. "Who are you again?" She blurts out, accidentally, she swears. Her patience's just running short and everybody here seems to want something from her.

He grins, amused. "Marcus Kane. I'm the head Gamemaker this year."

Clarke nods, shortly, then her eyes begin glancing around the room again. When she doesn't say anything, his grin just widens. "Are you having fun yet?"

"No," she answers, bluntly. She can't bring herself to be politically correct or even polite right now. She still doesn't see Bellamy and it's making her anxious. The worst Kane could say was that she wasn't a great conversationalist, and she could live with that. "How about you tell me what you want and we wrap this up?"

"I must not be the first Gamemaker you've encountered," he wonders, and she can feel his eyes on her face. "You have quite the reputation among us select few." She decides to ignore the jab at her actions and instead focuses on the part that angers her the most. Should she feel thankful, for him, the others of his kind?

She huffs, indignant, voice sarcastic. "Yeah, Carl Emerson was by far my favorite. Especially the fire balls he programmed to aim for my head. Those were especially _fun_." He'd been her very own head Gamemaker, but mysteriously was never seen again after her Games ended. Probably off to live a happy, wealthy, carefree life in Polis. Not that she'd want to see his stupid fucking face ever again. She's pretty sure she wouldn't be able to keep herself from killing him with her bare hands.

"Yeah, well," he sighs, deflective. "Emerson decided to quit breathing."

"Decided," she repeats, warily, head finally snapping up to look at him. The word feels weird in her mouth. No one ever really decides anything if you're owned by Wallace. Kane must be in his early fifties, he's still good looking enough. At least he can grow a full beard and look good with it, too, without having to shave impossible patterns into it. Now he's looking at the crowd instead of her.

He lifts a shoulder, noncommittally. "Being Gamemaker has never been the most secure job in the world." He finally looks at her now, and it's surprisingly non-threatening and non-condescending. Almost friendly.

"Then why would you take it on?" She wonders, searching his face for any thing out of the ordinary. Hastily, she adds, "And don't say it's a calling." Was it really just the money, the momentum, the promise of a wealthy life? Was that really all it took to justify killing 23 kids every year?

Kane's face remained a blank page. "I volunteered." She tilts her head in question, and the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. "I wanted a chance to make the Games mean something."

"They don't mean anything," she informs him bitterly, and she wants nothing more than to step away from him, find Bellamy (and maybe Anya too) and go back home. The Games were a vindictive ploy, and no matter what they said, they were as personal as they get—no kid from Polis had ever had to step foot into an arena, just the other district kids. Retribution for what the rebels did over 75 years ago. Nothing more than that. It's even in the fucking slogan. "They only mean to scare us into compliance."

"Well, maybe it was you," he counters, tone serious but he looks away for a moment to greet a capital citizen, crack a joke with her about the food. Clarke eyes him curiously. Then he turns back to her, continues, "Maybe it was you who inspired me to step up."

The song finally ends, and he kisses her hand, stepping closer with it still pressed in between them. Low, he tells her, eyes narrowed, "Remember who the real enemy is, Clarke." She can't do anything, but stand there frozen, wonder what he means, wonder what all of this means, why he's telling _her_ this.

"Look at the time," he startles, but something feels off as he motions over to his watch and Clarke can barely contain a snort. From this angle it almost looks like a mockingjay is displayed on it. Must be the latest capital fashion.

Then he pulls away like it never happened, smiling at some pathetic Polis man who comes to shake his hand as he glances over her one final time, a small parting nod. He leaves.

She rubs her temples in confusion, feeling a headache come on. What the hell did that all mean?

She doesn't have time to find out, or give it a second thought, because before she knows it, Anya is placing Clarke's hands on her own hips, throwing her arms around the blonde's neck as she starts swaying. She doesn't look at her, but Clarke is on high alert. Her first instinct had been to duck away, thinking the older victor was here to publically attack her. Turns out she just wants to dance? Which was even more confusing.

"Wallace has been eyeing me all night," she snarls low in Clarke's ear, an explanation as she stays on the defensive, looking around to make sure no one hears them. "He's with that slimebag Titus, and I'm certainly not in the mood."

Titus was one of Panem's ambassadors. There were twelve. Each ambassador symbolized a district, but lived in Polis. Some had never even lived in the district they represented. It wasn't hard to imagine they didn't always know what was best for their people. So yeah, Titus was probably an asshole, but Anya thought _everyone_ was an asshole.

"Why would th…" Her voice trails off as she lets out a small, dreadful, "Oh." Right. Bellamy was probably not the only one that Wallace used far beyond the Games, for his private monetized _appointment_ s.

Clarke wants to offer a sympathetic smile, or at least a smize, but Anya refuses to let her, scowling at no one in particular as her fingers clasps together tightly at the nape of the blonde's neck. It might be a warning she could snap her neck in a second. "You think you're so much better than us, don't you?"

"What?" Clarke startles as that, hands clamming up on Anya's bare skin. Her dress has cutouts on the waist, revealing parts of scarred, olive skin, all hard rigid muscles under her fingers.

"The way you look at us. Like we're pathetic and you can't wait to save us." Her breath smells like champagne, a welcome change from the usual moonshine that usually oozed off her.

"That's not how I look at you two and you know it," she replies, instantly and vexed. She _feels_ for them, wished she _could_ help them, but she doesn't think of herself in terms of being better than them for not having had the same experiences.

Anya scoffs, face scrunched up in resentment as she ignores her, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a shrug. "Well, he'll get to you too, sweetheart. Don't worry. It's only a matter of time."

She snorts, agonizingly at the look of pure alarm on Clarke's face, defiance in her eyes. "Believe me, I've tried everything. I tried the booze and then the drugs, tried yelling and screaming and crying and fighting, I tried to lay still, to not interact. Some liked that even more." She huffs, voice even as she recited everything like it was a simple grocery list. Like she'd gone over it a million times. "Even tried scarring myself, shaved my head, refused to eat, anything to make myself as unattractive as possible. I got older and that helped for a while, until I realized it just made me more alluring to a certain type of _sponsors_. No one was paying that close of attention to me anymore, so now they could _whatever_ they wanted to me."

Clarke is speechless yet again. How is she supposed to have an opinion about something she has absolutely _no_ idea about? What she wants is to give her advice or words of support, but how is she supposed to that? She's not even sure Anya would even want to hear it. Clarke's had enough clandestine conversations for one evening, really. Her head hurts and she longs for a long night of sleep. She swallows, tight. "Anya…"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," she snaps, teeth gritting together. "Let's just change the fucking subject until I can safely slip out and disappear for the night. Better yet, let's not talk at all."

Clarke nods, irritated, but decides not to push it. She's used to not talking to Anya anyway. This might have been the most they've ever said to each other. The blonde scans the ballroom once again, _finally_ finding Bellamy tucked away in a corner.

He was listening, or pretending to listen, to a woman with bright blue hair, chattering and waving her hands animatedly, sometimes resting it on his chest like he was some sort of prey. He met her eyes, and she stiffened, making her dance partner stumble over her feet. Clarke winced as she wiggled her toes to get the pain to diffuse.

He arches an eyebrow, amused, or challenging of some sort, and her neck flushed as she quickly broke eye-contact. When she looked back at Anya, she was unimpressed, eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline. "You want to fuck him."

It's not even a question. Has Clarke thought about fucking him? Sure, maybe, probably at one point. He's attractive to anyone with eyes, honestly, even on his worst days, and despite everything she's still young and full of hormones and likes sex, so she wouldn't be opposed to fucking anyone, really. She hasn't since Lexa so it's been a second or two. Doesn't mean she's always actively thinking about fucking _him_. In particular. The problem here maybe was the fact she wanted to do more than _just_ fuck Bellamy. That wasn't some sudden revelation, not to her, because she couldn't deny sometimes her mind went there. It was more the suggestion strangers could tell whatever she'd been trying to push away so hard, that struck her more than anything. A blush forms on her cheek involuntarily as she swallows, trying to form some saliva in her dry mouth.

"I thought we weren't talking," Clarke growls finally, but it lacks any real heat and just makes her look like an idiot who couldn't come up with a better reply. Like, maybe, _No, I don't want to_ fuck _him, Anya. Jesus_.

The older woman is smirking like she's having the time of her life. She doesn't say anything, which just makes it worse. It's quiet for a moment as the song changes once again. "The Peacekeepers are changing posts, so this is my chance."

When Anya steps away it's like she can finally breathe again. Bellamy lifts his hand up in greeting, or a ' _please help me_ ', looking like he could use a save from the woman in the form of an excuse to get the hell away, but she is already hurrying off to the bathroom. Honestly, she could use a moment by herself. His proximity would definitely not help her this time. She would find him in a second.

A few days later, it's time. There's an uneasy feeling in her stomach the entire day of the Quarter Quell announcement, and the moment she sits down on the couch in front of the television, she's shaking her leg nervously, picking at the loose skin around her nails.

Bellamy stills her hands by folding his around it, pulling it into his lap and she sends him a grateful smile, ignoring the stupid sneer on Anya's face in the process (is it really going to be like this from now on?) as they watch Wallace's monotonous speech on the television in front of them.

When the moment is finally there, Clarke's mouth opens and closes soundlessly, before she can force out, "They can't _do_ that, can they?"

She can't really process it, too shocked to feel any other emotion. Like sadness, or pain, or anger. She can imagine feeling mostly angry. Tomorrow. _The names of the tributes for the 75th Hunger Games will be drawn from the existing pool of victors_. Clarke can't make herself look at the others, not yet. She remembers what Wallace told her. _I promise I will find a way_. Isn't that what he told her, when he made her promise to act like a model victor and stop the uprisings from happening? He's punishing her.

"They just did," Anya informs her with gritted teeth, popping open a new bottle from the mini-fridge. She looks calm, but her hand is shaking as she flings the cap into the direction of the coffee table.

Bellamy suddenly storms off, closing the bedroom door behind him with a loud slam, Clarke staring after him in shock. It's different for him. He _knows_ he has to go back. She exchanges a look with Anya, who just lifts a shoulder indifferently as she puts the small bottle to her lips and throws her head back.

His door is locked for the rest of the night.

.

Bellamy doesn't come out for breakfast, not when she knocks on his door, or later when she threatens to kick it down. She probably couldn't, but she would damn well try. He just told her to leave him alone, voice muffled through the door. It's never been like that before, him not letting her be there for him.

Not even when they come in to announce their train back to district twelve is leaving in thirty minutes, he comes out. It's when Clarke and Anya have already settled in, after some slight coercion from a Peacekeeper, that he stumbles in. He doesn't even glance into their direction, immediately locking himself up in his sleeping car.

Clarke looks at the other female victor helplessly, but she just raises her eyebrows, crossing her fingers over her stomach as she closes her eyes. The blonde nervously taps her foot, biting on the inside of her cheek. She never needed advice on how to handle Bellamy, she just did. She's just so— _worried_.

Luckily for her, the doors to their bedrooms don't actually lock so well, so an hour into their trip home, after a cautionary knock, she steps into his room. Her heart breaks as she watches him lie on the bed, face pressed into his pillow.

"I don't need your advice," he mumbles, sharply, as he shifts his head on the pillow, the back of his head still directed away from her. The bed dips as she sits down on it next to his hips, giving him space. If he wants her to leave, she will. Then, he pushes himself up and grunts, strained, "Clarke." His eyes are red, either from lack of sleep or crying, she doesn't really know what would be worse. He didn't let her sleep with him last night, so there no way of knowing for sure.

She offers him a small smile, brow furrowed together as she reaches up to brush a messy curl away from his forehead. "You'll be okay, you know that, right?" If she has anything to say about it, he will be. He has to be. It's the one thing she's sure of right now.

"It doesn't matter what we do. We still end up here," he deflects, broken as turns so his entire body is facing hers now, leg stretched out beside her and the other one drawn up to his chest. "Caught up in their games."

"Maybe that's true. I think life should be about more than just surviving, too, more than being a part of a twisted game, but I don't think we have much choice," she counters softly as she runs her hand through his curls absently. When she first met him, she had never in a million years he was such a cuddler. He was always cold and harsh, especially to her, but now she _knows_ he's the most tactile person she's ever met. He craves it almost, can't help it. As he melts into her touch, this is only further confirmed. Trying to keep her voice upbeat in a hushed whisper, she forces herself to smile, "We have to try, if only to keep the people we care about safe. Then maybe one day, it can be."

He glares up at her, darkly as his fingers curl into his palms. "I've been thinking about it. I'm going to kill him, Clarke." He's just so angry, his voice shakes. She understands, she does. Being driven into a corner can make people do the worst things imaginable. But not him, not Bellamy. "I'm going to kill Wallace."

Clarke draws her hand back in surprise as she blinks at him for a moment. She swallows tightly, trying to get her heart rate back to normal. Her eyes soften at the look on his face. "You're not a murderer, Bellamy."

"Am I not?" He huffs, humorlessly, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. He physically leans back from her, like getting a better view of her face might confirm she's actually cracking a joke with him right now. "How can you even say that?"

"You always did what you had to, to protect your sister," she presses, eyes just as dark as his now as she sits up, shoulders straightened defensively. He's not allowed to think like that about himself. He volunteered for his sister and was then forced to do what he did so he could make it back home to her, to keep her safe when his mother couldn't. It didn't make him innocent, but it hardly made him a murderer. " _That's_ who you are."

His jaw clenches, and for a second she thinks he's going to protest, but then without another word, he pulls her into a hug. He rests his chin on the top of her head, and her arms come up to circle his waist tightly, burying her face against his shoulder. She really hadn't been that much of a hugger before Bellamy, but the physical comfort was needed on both ends more often that not. Helped them draw strength from each other.

"I talked to Anya last night," he concedes, words muffled into her hair. She pulls back though, wounded. He talked to Anya, not to her? She probably should be glad he talked to someone at least, yet a small, petty, selfish part of her can't help but put a claim to him. He's hers. "She won't go back there."

Clarke scoffs, resting her hands in her lap, one eyebrow quirked. "She won't? Well, I'd hate to break it to her, but I don't think she'll have much choice if they call out her name."

"That's not what I meant," he mumbles, dropping his face in his hands. She regards him, forehead creased in confusion. What is he talking about? He inhales sharply then, leaning back on his elbows before dropping back down onto his pillow.

He makes a face at the ceiling, blinking against tears that are swelling up in the corners of his eyes. Everything seemed to click at once, and her head snapped around to face forward, gritting her teeth at a wall. Accusatory, she snaps, "You asked her to volunteer?"

"It doesn't matter what I did. She _won't_ go back. If they try and make her, she'll kill herself before it happens," he matches her anger with some serious misplaced guilt. This is not his fault, or Anya's. This is _all_ Wallace. She won't let him take credit for that. "Then you will have to go in anyway. It makes no difference."

"You asked her to volunteer?" She repeats, disbelief written all over her face as she twists it to look at him. She was never _not_ going to go back in there. Wallace warned her, this was all because of her, what she did. She already made peace with it. He should be thinking about saving himself, not her. "We're _both_ supposed to be going in there, Bellamy."

"Well, I don't care about me," he admits with a hoarse whisper, resting his forearm over his eyes and she wants to cry, her chest feeling too small for her heart. He cares more about her than about himself. Doesn't he get that goes both ways? Besides, her mother will be fine without her. Wells will probably be devastated, but he'll survive. Octavia though? She needs her brother.

"Stop, please," she practically begs, putting one hand on top of his knee dismissively, using the other to pry away his arm. "I was _always_ going to go in there with you. That is what you and I do, we keep each other alive. Protect each other. We'll figure this out together."

Even if it wouldn't be her choice, she would still choose him. If they hadn't forced her hand, or drawn her name, she still would have volunteered. She obviously can't trust him to protect himself, so she's going to have to. She's a good strategizer, she'll think of something.

"Together," she repeats, very firm as her eyes find his, fingers clasping around his as she squeezes. Her voice trembles just a little, but she needs him to understand. It's him and her, since the moment she was reaped. And it will be, until the day one of them dies in the arena.

And it should be her. He doesn't need to know that part though, because he'll die before he lets that happen voluntarily. He'll do something stupid and reckless because he does before he thinks, and she won't fucking have it.

"Together," he finally counters, repeating her, voice quiet. She will bear it, that thought, until the day the inevitable happens, and until then she'll prepare him for it, so he can go on without her and win.

She shifts so she's higher up on the bed, nudges him with her elbow until he gives way, scooting over so she can crawl in beside him. He puts his arm around her almost automatically, their heads resting against the headboard, and she smiles, soft and sad for the both of them. Bellamy palms the side of her head to pull her closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair. When he releases her, she stares up at him, even if he just turns forward and closes his eyes.

Clarke follows the slope of his nose, his curved mouth, the infamous kitten scar that makes her smile, his freckle-scattered cheekbones, his clenched jaw, the vague stains of tears down his cheeks, the slight crease in his forehead. She buries her face into his chest, fondly placing a kiss there before letting her eyelids flutter close as well. She will bear it, so he doesn't have to.

.

"Wow. If it isn't my favorite mentor," she deadpans, a few days later during breakfast as she smears butter on top of her toast. "Especially since I had to convince you to even take the job."

He just grunts a few incoherent words in return, rubbing at his still tired eyes with the heels of his hands. He pads over to the kitchen counter and opens up a cabinet to pour himself a glass of juice. He's not usually up this late, since he likes to go hunting on most mornings. He's been too emotionally drained ever since the announcement, though, so it makes sense.

"Hey, he makes his tributes work for it. Nothing wrong with that," Octavia counters, cheerily, just as he sits down next to her. "Survival of the fittest and all."

When they first arrived home from Polis, she'd hugged him wordlessly. "It's okay. I won't let anything bad happen to you, Octavia. I promise," he'd said into the crown of her hair, rocking her a little in his arms, implying he'd take care of her no matter what, even if he was dead.

Octavia had pulled back, but kept her arms around him. "Shut up," she'd countered, glaring up at him, but it'd lacked conviction.

"That's what I said to you the day you were born," he'd teased, an eyebrow quirked as he ruffled her hair.

"I know," she'd rolled her eyes playfully, smoothing down her full head of hair. "You told me that like a thousand times."

"I'm sure it was more like a couple million." He'd cupped her cheeks, squeezing them together fondly until she slapped them away, pushing him off her. "Fuck you." He'd smirked, but then her eyes had turned all sad of a sudden, shaking her head lightly. "You can't protect me from this one, big brother."

He hadn't said anything, just kissed her on the forehead loudly before swinging his arm around her and leading her into their house. Clarke had remembered what he told her, during her first games. _My sister, my responsibility_. It must feel maddening to have no power over something you're so used to be able to control at all times.

"We still have a few days before the Reaping so we should probably watch some old games later," he directed at Clarke groggily as he ruffled his hair with one hand, using the other to get a piece of toast from the breadbasket on the table.

The blonde nodded into her food, mouth too full to respond verbally. She guesses all they could really do now was prepare themselves as best as they could. A Quarter Quell guaranteed a crazy arena, so learning from the past was probably the best tactic. At least this time around they had the luxury to spend time saying goodbye to the ones they cared about.

So that's how they spend their last few days. She tries to make sure all her dues were paid, painted for hours until she couldn't see straight anymore, writes letters to her mom and Wells that she asks Octavia to send if she doesn't return. Watching the Games, skipping his, skipping hers, skipping the 74th. They didn't need to focus on pain right now. Eating breakfast with the Blakes, trying to get her stamina back up by going out for runs and doing some strength training, trying not to lose faith.

The last thing was the hardest part of it all. She had to be physically strong, so she could get Bellamy as far as possible. That was the easy part. Mentally, however, remained a struggle. Maybe she'd been so focused on getting Bellamy through this, that she never stopped to think about how she was going to.

The day before the reaping, Clarke's cleaning out some of her belongings to give away to the Seam, when she stumbles onto her father's pin. She sinks down on the stool in front of her easel, half of a painting of the sunset perched on top of it, rubbing her thumb over the golden emblem. Her mind flashes to Kane's watch and she huffs. Even the memory of her father, Polis had managed to turn into something ugly, something monetized, something insignificant.

She must sit there for a few hours, because when Bellamy finds her, it's starting to get dark out. She blinks up at him, dazed, as he comes to stand beside her, vaguely registering the fact he's talking.

Suddenly, he laughs lowly as he tilts his head in question, while she just gazes up at him stupidly. He shakes his head lightly, "Look princess, we didn't spend all this time preparing, and saying goodbye to our lives, and our friends, all this time of you giving me pep talk after pep talk, just for you to tune out on me now."

The corners of her lips twitch lightly, and she wants to smile, she does, wants to give him the comfort of knowing she's fine, but she just feels too drained. He kneels down at her side, hand coming up to rest on her shoulder supportingly. His gaze softens, as he offers her a tight smile. "Are you okay?"

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, soundlessly as her head shakes slightly to herself. It's just—it's the pin. Her dad, he stood for something, for his people, the workers in the mine. And he died for nothing. He did _everything_ right. He won the Games, he spoke highly of them to the public, he did something to change the districts, make the jobs more safe. He still ended up dead. She barely has done any good. How is that—how is any of it supposed to—how is she supposed to change anything when obviously she can't? Who does she think she is, really?

"You still have hope?" She forces out eventually, voice thick with emotion, and it's now she realizes she was crying, cheeks wet with tears. It must be why he looked so worried all of a sudden. It's just that _damn_ pin.

"We still breathing?" He counters, without skipping a beat, eyebrows raised in a challenge, thumb running over the skin of the back of her neck. She reaches up to wipe at her cheeks with one hand, sniffing.

She considers it for a moment. Even if it is useless, she can't pretend like the fight's already been fought. She can't go in there thinking she'll die, that's what Bellamy told her her first Games. She didn't, she kept fighting and here she is. Even if it is impossible, maybe they _can_ both make it out. Clarke Griffin winning the Hunger Games over Ontari or Dax was impossible back then, too. Maybe she just needs to think the possibility is there, just for a peace of mind.

He probably thought he had no chance, no hope before he went into his arena. Same for her. Same for every other victor except for a select few. She _is_ still breathing, still here, and she can't give up. Not until she does stop.

She offers him a weak smile, hand coming up to circle the wrist of the hand on her shoulder, turning her face so she can nuzzle her nose against his skin. She sniffs again, closing her eyes for a moment as she rests her forehead against the arm holding on to him.

She pulled back to look at him, finally, his eyes already on hers. She really didn't know what she would've done without him. Always by her side.

Impulsively, she leans down to connect their lips. He freezes at first, tension radiating off him under her touch, but then his hands come up to cup her cheeks, thumbs smoothing over her skin. His eyes are wide open, but the first tentative flick on her tongue against his lips finally make them flutter closed.

He inhales sharply, parting his mouth slightly and she takes the opportunity to brush her tongue along his, tasting him. Her hands slide up his chest to cover his shoulders, their lips crushing together in a desperate tangle of neediness, each trying to go deeper, taste more, give more.

She needed to know what it was like, just as badly as she needed him. If they were going back into that arena, if they were going to be hopeful, they also needed to be realistic. Chances were they were both going to be dead in a month. She wanted to be okay with that. And she couldn't be, not without doing this.

Even if she could never admit her feelings out loud, never allow herself be that weak and vulnerable, never could get distracted like that, never could reflect long enough to figure out _exactly_ how she feels because that would mean being in constant pain. She might not know if she loves him like that, if she even can, but she knows she does love him in every other conceivable way. He was special.

Clarke also knows he _does_ love her like that. She wasn't that dense. He was like an open book to her at this point. _You really hurt him_ , Octavia told her. He gave her that power, to hurt him in a way only lovers can. She wanted to give _him_ this. So he could be okay with it, too.

"Clarke," he forces out, hoarse and strained. He pulls back, resting his forehead against hers with his eyes still firmly shut. They're both panting heavily, warm breath fanning over each other's faces. She nods against him, _because she won't be able stop either_ , moving her arms down his shoulders to his hands, squeezing once before leading him over to the bed. "Let's got to sleep."

They don't need to talk about it. They both know what it means to the both of them. Both know what is there and what could be. Both know it can't be. Not now.

It's just one kiss, but it's also more than that. A promise. She can't now, can't have it all out in the open like that, exposed, can't risk it. But maybe… Maybe there's hope that someday it can be.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

It's Wells who finds her first in the Justice Hall after the Reaping, like the last time. He looks gloom, like he hasn't slept in days, yet he still smiles at the sight of her. Her heart leaps, _she's missed him_ , which is an ironic thing to realize the last time you're ever seeing someone.

After everything she's been through, is going to have to go through again; someone trying to protect her feelings seems like the most ridiculous, frivolous reason of reasons to be mad at that person. At that point, what could he have done to get her father back? Nothing. He just made sure she didn't lose her mother, too. Everything. That was everything.

"I'm sorry," she breathes into his neck when his arms come up to circle around her, tentative. She retaliates by wrapping her arms around his shoulders as tight as she can. He was her best friend, and she let Wallace taint that, too. Like he hadn't ruined enough of her, enough of who she was. "I'm sorry I never—"

She's felt strangely numb ever since she volunteered. She couldn't let Anya go into that arena, not in the state she was in, not when she couldn't keep Bellamy safe. She would bear it, instead. If she hadn't, Wallace would still find a way to get her inside anyway. She felt calmer than she'd had in days when the words had left her mouth. She couldn't look at Bellamy though, not right then. He was going to murder her as soon as he got her alone.

"Save the apologies for when you get back, Clarke," he counters, pulling back a little to look at her face, eyes shining bright. He was always good at faking positivity to make her feel better. "People look up to you, they did during your first Games and they will again. You'll get a ton of sponsors."

A frown etches onto her face. She knows he's trying to ensure she'll win, but she's not certain she wants to. Considering what needs to happen to accomplish it. "Yeah, well, that's because people thought I was in love with Finn."

"No, it wasn't," he urges, the epitome of tranquility. "It was because—" He focuses his gaze on the ceiling, like he's trying to put it in words, or trying not to shake her, pausing for just a beat. "—because even though Finn couldn't walk, even though only one person could win, and it was going to be you or him, you patched him up."

"So I showed mercy," she admits bitterly, shaking her head lightly. What is he trying to do here? Make her out to be some sort of hero? Well, fuck that. She was nobody's hero. "That doesn't mean—"

"No," Wells corrects her, certain, and for a second it crosses Clarke's mind that he might be annoyed with her insistence on being humble. She's not being humble, she's being real. "You showed compassion. You tried to save Myles, you helped Madi, you patched up Finn. You didn't owe them anything, but even in the middle of a life or death situation, you were never selfish. The Games took everything from you, yet you didn't let it change you. You didn't let them. _That's_ what set you apart." He offers her a grin, and he's so calm and sure it's freaking her out a little. "The fact you sacrificed yourself just to make a statement was a little dramatic but—"

"Shut up," she says without much heat, as she hugs him again. She doesn't have much time to get into the semantics of it all. Sponsors or not, she's not really planning to come out of that arena anyway.

He pulls back, eyes searching her face intently. He's not telling her something, she knows that much after years of being his best friend. She opens her mouth to ask him about it, but he squeezes her hand just as there's a knock on the door. Licking his lips, he informs her, "Remember who the real enemy is."

She inhales sharply, what are the odds he's telling her the exact same thing Kane had? What is up with all the cryptic messages lately? She's about to ask him about it, demand answers, when the door opens. Clarke's head snaps up, expecting her mother, but instead it's maybe the last person she'd ever expected to come see her goodbye.

Wells seems to be purposely avoiding her gaze as he walks away with one final squeeze of her fingers nodding at Raven Reyes in passing. He knew Raven? Finn's girlfriend, Raven? She didn't remember him ever mentioning having crossed paths with her. How could he? He barely left the merchant section of district twelve. Then again, he hadn't been an active part of her life in a while. She didn't have much time to dwell on it, the Seam girl coming up to her in a few long strides.

She looks annoyed, dimple above her eyebrow indicating as much. She's pretty despite the hostile attitude, olive skin and long brown locks pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Clarke just looks at her expectantly. Is she here to kick her ass one last time? Even if she'd deserved it last time, she wasn't really in the mood right now. The girl surely could find some comfort in knowing she would be dead soon anyway.

Her jaw ticks, as she crosses her tan arms over her chest. "They didn't show this on camera, because they were too busy with you murdering those Careers, but uh. Finn took the berries on his own volition. He knew what he was doing."

"How do you know?" Clarke swallows an apology, figuring it won't make a difference for the other girl. Not now. She's still confused as to why she's even here. Doesn't know why she's bringing up Finn even if it is the only thing that bounds them when it comes down to it.

Yet, she can't seem to figure out why Raven seems to be so sure of the fact he did when that's not what they showed during the Games. Surely, they would broadcast something like a tribute eating the berries that kill them, purely for dramatics. _Look at that stupid boy from district twelve, look at him eating those poisonous berries!_ But they hadn't and she hadn't put much thought to it before.

"I just do." Her teeth grit together. If it wasn't for the slight tremble in her voice, Clarke would almost mistake the anger for just that. She was in pain, more than anything. "Besides, deep down I always knew. Me and Finn spent enough time in the woods for him to be able to decipher a blueberry from nightlock. Anyway. It doesn't matter now."

"What are you saying?" Clarke responds, suspicious almost. She didn't understand whatever angle Raven came over to push onto her here. Why? Why now? Her heart pounds loudly in her chest. She always thought it was her fault. That she didn't get to him on time, was too busy crying and grieving and being weak to get to him sooner, to tell him that he couldn't eat them, to save him.

"I'm saying that Finn cared about you. I should've known, the way he always stared at you. The merchant girl who wouldn't give him the time of day," she growls, sourly, a scowl on her face. She doesn't take her brown eyes off Clarke's, gaze insistent. "When he heard those cannons go off when the Careers died, he knew it was either you or him."

It makes sense, why they wouldn't show it on television. Taking your own life was apparently an act of defiance, so she's been told. The tributes—they don't get to decide how they die. Finn taking those berries to save _her_ —that was an act of love, and _hope_. Something that didn't fit in with Wallace's pro-games propaganda. It was fine when their alleged puppy love was something he could use as a tool to show the masses the Games weren't all bad, that they weren't evil, but he hadn't meant for it to be used against him.

Clarke shakes her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose with the heel of her hand, racking her brain for explanations—any explanation. This is not how Clarke remembers it, any of it. She never noticed Finn, not before the Games. Her hands start to feel clammy. Her first instinct is to defend herself, _she didn't know_ , but she pushes it back. The other girl wouldn't care for an apology anyway. She finally meets Raven's fiery gaze, forehead creased. "He did it for me?"

"He _died_ for you," she snaps, sharply as she uncrosses her arms, clenching her fists at her sides instead. Her nostrils flare. For a second, Clarke thinks she might just be here to express her frustration with the victor, but then her gaze softens, somewhat, as she swallows thickly. "So come back."

She turns on her heels at that, storming out the door and leaving Clarke to blink at it in confusion for a second. What the hell was that? Finally, her mother comes in with a minute to spare and she gets to say goodbye to her one last time.

Her mother's arms wrap around her frame gingerly and Clarke feels too drained, too drained to fight, figures it won't make a difference now anyway. You can't be angry at someone from the grave.

Abby pulls back after a moment, hands coming up to bracket her daughter's face, wiping back her hair. She tilts her head slightly, eyes brimming with tears. In that moment, Clarke feels broken like never before and lets herself break in front of her mother. The one person who she used to call home, who she loved more than anything, who was supposed to love her. Liquid spills down her own cheeks as she croaks out, "Dad's dead because of you."

She opens her mouth to respond, but closes it, once again caressing the hair from Clarke's face that had fallen back, adjusting her grip on her cheeks. A tear escapes from her eye, trailing down her cheek. She sniffs, voice breaking, "I love you, Clarke. Don't ever forget that."

"I love you, too," Clarke responds, because she can't lie right now. It's the reason her betrayal hurts so much. She wraps her fingers around her mother's wrists, and takes them down from her face, dropping them once they are. The blonde wipes the back of her hands angrily at the tears falling down her skin, forcing her voice to be steady, so there's no room for any misunderstandings. "I'm not going to make it out. But know if I do, I never want to see you again."

Her mother gasps softly, her eyes pained, hands limp at her sides, and it feels _good_ , almost poetic even, that her mom now feels exactly how Clarke felt when she lost her father. Then, she's ushered off to the trains.

.

"She was going to kill herself and I would've had to go in anyway," Clarke presses, first thing out of her mouth as she finds him in the back of the train, staring out at the tracks behind them through the window as district twelve disappears into the distance. "Then she'd be dead for nothing."

Honestly, she was confused when they called Anya's name at first, for just a split second. Then she'd looked over at Bellamy, staring straight ahead ever since his name had been called, and she understood. Wallace was trying to get at her _through_ him. A promise he would not make it out alive. He knew she wouldn't be able to resist going into that arena if his life was at stake. He knew she couldn't resist trying to save him, save Anya, too, indirectly. At the same time, it cleared him of any suspicion of rigging the Reaping if the rebels were to ever claim so.

He doesn't turn his head to look at her, sourly informing her, "Well, may the odds be ever in your favor, princess." She absolutely hates it when he acts like this.

Her nostrils flare as she stalks over to him, pulling on his arm to make him turn away from the window and face her. "Bellamy. Listen—"

"You _know_ —you know how I feel about—" He starts, voice dark and gruff and thick with emotion, but then cuts himself off, jerking his arm away, as he glares at her. This time his voice doesn't waver. "What? It was just some physical comfort for you? You never stopped to think about how it would make me feel?"

She freezes dead in her tracks, pulse rattling in her throat. He's talking about the kiss, she realizes, face clearing up in surprise as she reflexively takes a small step back. He hadn't mentioned it since it happened, and maybe now he was resentful to her for not mentioning it either. She didn't think she had to, thought they were on the same page as always. She can't contradict him, tell him he's wrong, because if she does, that'll indirectly mean admitting she feels something for him. She can't do that. Can't make him believe it meant something more than some sort of twisted goodbye she'd thought it up to be in her mind. It'll only turn into a weakness as soon as they're in that arena. She has to remain objective, if she wants to save him. She shakes her head, biting on the inside of her cheek, as she meets his eyes, apologetic.

"I'm sorry," he breathes out, guiltily, before she can say anything. His face softens at the stricken look on her face as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, turning away from her. He sighs loudly, as he sinks down on the seating area in front of the window, elbows bracketed on his knees. She sits down beside him, tentatively, not sure what he's apologizing for.

"You were upset and I can't—I can't hold that against you," he explains, taking his head out of his hands, like he's already had this entire conversation with her in his head but somehow the look on her face made all his reservations disappear, made all his defenses come back down. "So I won't from now on, okay? And then maybe, you can stop looking at me like I need to be saved."

"Bellamy," she warns, voice weak, but he shakes his head, dismissive, hand coming up to cover hers. "No, it's okay, Clarke. I understand why you did what you did. It was my mistake to make it out to be something it wasn't. You didn't do it to try and hurt me."

She just stammers at him, because maybe that hadn't been her intention, but he was obviously hurt by it anyway. She almost wants him to be angry. She just doesn't know how to put that into words without sounding like an asshole. Her mind races. It's no use for any of them to discuss what this is really about, what they really feel. Not now. She stills feels the same way. She can't risk it.

He just smiles, small as he tugs on her braid with his free hand. "Let's just—" he sighs, heavy, cutting himself off with a small shake of his head. His grin widens, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You want to ask Anya for advice, just to get a rise out of her?"

She huffs, humoured, even though her heart still feels heavy, knocking her arm against his. They could use some lightness, before it's all over. It's a half-hearted attempt on his part to break the tension. She offers him a tight-lipped smile, just a hint of sadness. "Sure."

.

This year's pool of tributes is interesting to say the least. Everyone is angry, some even more than others, and they're trying to get the people to be angry, too, so they might cancel the Games. Clarke figures it's not really any use trying to join the movement, since there's no way Wallace will let that happen.

Before the tribute parade, Luna from district four cornered her at her chariot while Bellamy was talking to some other victors. He had already been trying to find allies, catching up with old friends, even though Clarke had decided they should just stick together, the two of them.

Not only was Luna the girl who stabbed Lexa with her own sword, but also the victor who had to kill her own brother. Her full mane of curls was almost intimidating as she pet the horse attached to district twelve's carriage with long, deliberate strokes. She'd told Clarke with a smirk, "I liked your tactic during your Games." The smirk had widened but her eyes remained a certain kind of coldness that almost made Clarke shiver. Instead she'd clamped her mouth shut firmly, even when she'd continued, "In my opinion, we _all_ shouldn't be allowed to live either."

It really set the tone for Clarke, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach ever since that encounter. There was no way they could actually trust any of these people no matter how long Bellamy had known them. They were all molded to survive, and survival instinct is to protect yourself no matter what.

Training was uneventful. A lot of tributes decided to not show up, as a form of protest. Clarke almost didn't either, and it wasn't like Bellamy was jumping up and down at the opportunity to learn how to make a fishnet, but ultimately, Anya was the one who convinced them to go. It was a good way to scout out the competition and find allies. She was their mentor now. The irony did not escape her.

"Don't look too excited," she'd huffed sarcastically at the scowl on Clarke's face, strangely sober in both senses of the word. "I'm not the making-friends type either—" Bellamy had scoffed at that, but she'd ignored him, narrowing her eyes as she continued, "—but I don't think you have much choice. After what happened during your last Games, what you did to those Careers, you might as well go in there with a target on your back."

He'd smirked. "Careful, Anya. We might start thinking you care."

She'd had a point, whether they liked it or not. A girl from district twelve taking down three Careers at once, without using any physical strength and the sheer power of tactic instead. Of course the new Careers wouldn't like that. They would want to set the record straight. It might motivate the other tributes to get to her as soon as possible, to get her out of the way. Some tributes were _actually_ far up Wallace's ass, agreed with his games. They wouldn't like what she did after killing those Careers either, either. She'd dragged Bellamy down, too, just for being associated with her.

So there they were. After forcing themselves to sit through the mandatory part of training, Bellamy had been running through the fight simulation with his bow and arrow for the third time that day, Clarke working on trying to throw a knife at a moving target. She figured she could skip the edible plants and insects memory game this time around.

She makes a few decent hits after a while, and figures she should try and work the underlying reason they're here. It wasn't like three days of training were actually going to make that much of a difference to their odds in the arena when some of them had been training their entire lives. She wipes a few beads of sweat from her forehead as she turns back to assess the room. There isn't anyone she would really like to be friendly with because it just means more pain in the end.

Bellamy comes up besides her, like he'd been reading her mind, chest still heaving up and down from his last simulation. He was pretty good at archery already, so it actually made no sense for him to run through it so many times instead of focusing on something else. "So, you made any progress yet?"

Clarke eyes their lists of possible candidates. She likes Sinclair, from district five. He taught her how to make a fishhook earlier. He's very smart. She hadn't approached him about the subject though, not yet. Rationally speaking, he lost his leg in his Games and because of his prosthetic he would probably only slow them down.

"No, you?" She sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose with the heel of her hand as she puts her knifes back into their display.

"Me?" He sounds surprised, eyebrows raised as he runs a hand through his curls. His cheeks are flushed from exertion. "This is right up your alley, Clarke. You're good at making friends."

"Hey, you're charming when you want to be," she counters, elbowing him playfully. Sure, he was standoffish at first but he could also use that as a wall, be cocky and flirty in that appealing way some people liked. Besides, he was at an advantage here. "You've known all these people longer than me. Some might already be your friends."

"Being charming isn't a skill that'll get you very far in the arena," he snorts and crosses his arms over his chest, nods over at a girl from Azgeda waiting for her turn on the gauntlets. "What about Echo? She's good."

Clarke scoffs, choking back an indignant chuckle. "No. She is exactly the kind of person who would stab us in the back." She's good at reading people because she's a realist, Bellamy isn't always. As if the other victor can feel they're discussing her, she bends over in a stretch, warming up her muscles. "Are you really too blinded by her _assets_ to see that?"

Bellamy actually laughs at the scowl on her face, patting her on the shoulder blade, warmth radiating through her tank. "Don't worry, been there, done that." So he did have friends. Friends he got a little too friendly with. She pushes down the annoying feeling gnawing at her and making her stomach churn, something she refuses to acknowledge as jealousy. Sometimes she forgets Bellamy was a had a life before her. "Which kind of takes away the allure of it all. I know exactly who she is."

She bites down on the inside of her cheek, jaw clenched as she decides to move on from the subject before he catches on to her uneasiness. No matter his history with her, Echo is Azgeda. They're ruthless. "What about Sinclair?" She finally forces out, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "He's resourceful. I also like Gaia, she's sweet."

Gaia from district three was a little bit of an odd bird. After she won her Games, she went a little crazy. Kept speaking of a higher purpose, that there was some invisible Commander who was going to come and bring all of Panem salvation. They think it was the tracker jacker venom that almost killed her in the arena that caused her brain to warp. Clarke suspects it's also a case of PTSD that went untreated for too long by the capital, effects probably only heightened by the trauma caused by the venom. Or maybe there actually is a commander and they're all too stubborn to believe. It was none of her business really.

Most people and tributes stayed out of her way because of it, but she'd offered Clarke a strawberry after training yesterday. They'd been riding the elevator back up to their respective apartments and she must've caught the blonde staring; fruit like that didn't grow in the woods near district twelve but it'd looked delicious. Smiling over at her sweetly, she'd held one out, "Sharing is a virtue, Heda says it's so." Clarke had refused but she wouldn't give in (it was so _juicy_ and good), eventually handing her the entire basket as the elevator dinged and she got off on her floor. Now Gaia kept waving excitedly and saying 'hi' to her like they were old friends, even came over to watch her at the camouflage station in silence.

"So you like the old guy who can't run and the girl who is a certified basket case?" He looks at her skeptically, biceps flexing as he shakes his head to himself, mumbling, "Figures."

"We need people we can trust, Bellamy," she snaps, crouching down to pick up her bottle of water from her bag, taking a large swig to try and cool down a little. He doesn't get to judge the people she picked when he chose the Ice Queen herself. And if one more person tells her she just wants people she can save, she's going to explode.

" _You_ can trust," he corrects her, eyebrow quirked in a challenge. She feels anger surge up at the implication but when her head shifts to look at him, he's smirking and doesn't seem upset.

"I thought we shouldn't have any allies to start with," she retorts, rising to her feet and throwing a towel over her shoulder after wiping her damp forehead with it. "And I trust _you_. So if you want Echo to be our ally, go ahead and ask her. Just remember my name when she inevitably breaks my neck or stabs me to death right in front of you."

Echo is Azgeda. It quite literally doesn't get worse than that. She's been raised training to win these Games. The first chance she gets, she's going to turn on them or murder them. She can feel it whenever she looks at her, always that stupid sneer on her face when she catches her, that defiant look. She gets Bellamy has history with her, and she's not jealous of that, she really isn't, she just does _not_ trust that girl.

She remembers watching the tapes of her Games. She'd killed ten kids during the bloodbath at the cornucopia, then waited until the other Careers had done the rest of the dirty work for her, only to murder them in their sleep while she was supposed to keep guard. There were just two other tributes left at that point, and it was easy pickings from there on. She finished smirking and covered in somebody else's blood. That's what set Clarke off the most. Not the betrayal, no, she could understand that in some way. It was the fact she looked like she'd _enjoyed_ it.

She moves to stalk away from him, starting to unravel her braid—done with training for the day—but he catches up with her without even trying. "Is that you trusting me?" Bellamy tugs on her hand, forcing her back toward him. He tilts his head, judgemental. "Because if it is—it needs some work."

She scrunches her eyes shut for just a moment, trying to collect herself. "I do trust you, Bellamy." She runs a hand through her hair, opening her mouth and try and explain her irrational distrust of Echo. She can't without sounding like a jealous girlfriend, or using _I just don't like her_ as an excuse _,_ so she sighs instead. "Maybe the problem is I _only_ trust you."

His gaze softens and one of his fingers runs over her knuckles. He lets out a deep, resigned breath. Then the corners of his mouth turn up slightly, "I take it _you_ 're going to break the news to Anya that we're not taking on any allies?"

Clarke finally cracks a smile, shaking her head lightly as she pinches his side with her free hand. "Please. She'll be _ecstatic_ to hear she's going to have the Victor's Village all to herself."

.

"Two twelves, I think we've managed to piss off the president," Bellamy snorts, dry, still looking at the TV screen. Their training scores from evaluation day just came in. Anya rubs her eyes with one hand, downing the rest of her drink, before hissing, "Why do I even bother?"

She hadn't even _planned_ on pissing anyone off that day. Until one of the tributes got dragged off in the midst of a panic attack and she was right back in that arena. Why _should_ she play along? They might not cancel the Games, but she can make sure she's not giving them the show they want. What are they going to do? Kill her? She was planning on showing off her camouflage skills, but then she met Kane's gaze up in the tiered theatre.

He was up there with the other Gamemakers, staring down at her with a smile that seemed more encouraging than anything. Did he enjoy the dramatics of it all? Was he revelling in the fact she was going to be dead soon?

Blood rushed to her ears, boiling and flushing her skin all over. She was so angry all of a sudden. She didn't know how to throw a punch, or fire a bow and arrow in a way that would make them understand, so she stuck to what she knew.

Using the materials from the camouflaging station, she drew a portrait of Myles and Madi smiling, rounding it out with flowers, the concrete ground a makeshift canvas. Then with red paint and just her fingers, she wrote underneath: " _I'm coming for you, Wallace. - Twelve_ ". Angrily, she'd wiped her trembling hands on her pants, curtsied, and then stormed out of training centre.

She must've made them understand pretty well, considering the twelve it earned her.

"You sure you just painted a picture?" Bellamy raises an eyebrow, finally catching her attention and making her head snap to him, inclined sideways to consider him. Anya answers for her before she can open her mouth. "She did. Also told them to go fuck themselves in the process."

Clarke narrows her eyes. "You can't tell me you just hit bullseye with your arrow and that was that."

"I did," he replies, genuinely. Then he smirks, leaning back into the couch with his hands behind his head, "But then I realized they weren't watching so I shot at them instead."

"He shot an apple out of a pig's mouth. It was on their buffet table," Anya again, nails digging into her thighs. The blonde smiles, reflexive, because Bellamy was definitely dramatic like that. "It was foolish. You're both idiots."

Clarke shrugs at her words, they probably are. A higher ranking definitely won't help them. At this point, what will though? It felt good, to teach them a lesson. It isn't until her dressing for the interviews that she comes to realize the severity of it all.

"There have been protests in Polis, the citizens don't want another games. Not like this," Lincoln tells her as he fixes the strap of her dress. The sequined material is thick and heavy on her skin. Her heartbeat speeds up at his admission. Could this mean…

"Not yet," he says, with a knowing smile, skillful hands sowing the strap tighter to her body. "But people are angry. They've grown attached to some victors and seeing them in so much pain… Your interview will be the perfect opportunity to add some fuel to the fire." He takes a step back, admiring his work. "And if that isn't enough, just spin for me, okay?"

She nods, grateful and he squeezes her arm encouragingly. "They can't do anything to you that they haven't already done. Worst case scenario is they send you into the Games. Best case they cancel them all together."

Clarke smiles at him, dare she says hopeful, and they discuss their favorite painters after that, from before the rebel wars, before the Games. It's a welcome distraction from the loud, nervous pounding of her heart.

.

She watches some of the interviews backstage with Bellamy. She's the last one up, and the amount of mascara on her lashes is starting to make it hard to see, the sequins of her dress scratching her skin. John Murphy, from district eleven, slithers up to them at one point, his greasy hair slicked back with gel.

"Well, well, if it isn't district twelve royalty," he sneers, eyes narrowed. "What is you two's sob story going to be when you go up there? More 'little innocent Madi didn't deserve this'?" He was referring to the crying, screaming messes some of the victors had been up until this point. He turns to Bellamy, "Some of that 'I have a poor, disabled sister who can't take care of herself'?"

Clarke clenches her jaw, drawing in a tight breath through her nose, starting to lunge at him. Who does he think he is? Bellamy puts his arm in front of her, halting her to a stop as he takes a step forward himself. He declares, sharply, "Some people are trying to do something to make a change. I know you thrive on chaos, Murphy, but it's not always the best strategic move."

"You think we're going to sit around a fire, braid each other's hair and sing kumbaya next?" He snorts loudly, before going back to one of his nasty scowls. Deep down, she knows he's right. The people crying about unity and peace and how they can't do this again and this not being what they deserve because they paid their dues in the first games, are the same people who are going to kill them in the arena when it comes down to it. They're all just trying to survive. Yet, when it comes from that rat's mouth, she wants to disagree just on principle.

Murphy's teeth grit together, expression nasty as he scolds them, "Give me a break. Peace is overrated. The fighters survive. The sooner all of you realize that and that the Games are never in a million years going to be cancelled, the better." He chuckles, low and vicious. "Then again, it improves my odds, so I don't really care."

He gets called up next, flipping them off with a saccharine sweet smile before disappearing onto the stage. It's not long before he gets dragged right back off, because apparently yelling _fuck your games and fuck everyone who had anything to with it_ at the tops of your lungs crossed the line. He makes eye-contact with them as the Peacekeepers let him go backstage, and he smirks at them as he straightens his jacket.

They cut to a commercial break so Cage can recover from the shock probably, and she's going to be up in a moment, she thinks as she turns back to Bellamy with a frown. "What the hell is his problem?"

"The same as all of us I guess," Bellamy implies, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks over her shoulder at the stage. "Winning the Games was supposed to mean you got to live the rest of your life in peace."

"It never has though," she presses, softly, giving him a knowing look. The things they forced him to do after the Games were almost just as bad as the things they forced him to do during. He sighs, and she opens her mouth but Anya motions it's her turn from her place at the curtain, so she just offers him a small supportive smile instead.

"Welcome back, Clarke," Cage tells her as soon as she's settled in on the broad wingback chair beside his. She forces a smile on her face and returns a thank you. She was planning to go the polite route so she could get him to trust her enough to give a minute to plead her case at the end of her interview.

He catches her by surprise though, as soon as the pleasantries are over, with that stupid smirk of his. "A little birdie told us you found someone new." Clarke's brow creases as she turns to the screen behind them, pictures popping up of her and Bellamy. The hair on the back of her neck stands up straight.

Her pulse is a gallop as she stares up at the images, private moments, most of which she doesn't even remember. There's a picture of them in his garden, he's holding both of her hands in his as he laughs, head thrown back slightly. She looks equally as pleased, grinning from ear to ear. They were probably doing something frivolous, like playing slapsies or him helping her up from the ground after having lunch. Dread settles into her stomach as she looks down at the date. Everyone thought she'd been grieving Finn back then, this makes it seem like—like she never cared at all. Even though, even though they're all taken out of context to fit their narrative that she was a conniving, lying, cold-hearted bitch who should die in the Games.

There's another one on the porch, they're hugging goodbye. She remembers this one, it'd been his birthday and they had just finished off an entire cake between the two of them that she'd stayed up all night to bake. She was wishing him one more happy birthday before going over to her house to paint or nap, she can't remember. They zoom in on her face, a content smile on it as she buries it into his neck. Fingers gripping tightly onto his shirt.

It fades into another picture. They're outside on the grass, he's leaning back on his elbows and she's sitting up probably teasing him about something, one hand on his stomach. From this angle it looks like they're kissing.

They're casual, platonic touches, nothing too scandalous, but she knows how it looks. They didn't show the whole story; the nightmares and the hallucinations and the panic attacks. She's not even surprised they'd been spying on them, really. What _could_ they do to her surprise her at this point? She'd been helping them herself, all this time. Convincing everyone she did what she did because of Finn, because she lost her damn mind over him, emotions heightened by the tracker jacker venom, that she could not imagine living without him so she ended her life. The whole victory tour, every interview, every public appearance—she gave them what they wanted. Well played, Wallace.

"Turns out you weren't thinking about Finn all this time after all," Cage adds, expression sugary sweet but there's a crude look in his eyes, crinkled at the corners. He tries to catch the audience up to speed, addressing them directly, "Instead you were thinking of your old mentor. Bellamy Blake. District twelve's male tribute this year." He turns back to her, batting his eyelashes innocently. "Perhaps you have been, all along?"

She doesn't know how to twist this in her favor. She doesn't think everyone grieves the same way, or that there's an expiration date on it. She doesn't think there's anything wrong with finding love again either, real or not, but he's trying to make it seem like she's a whore. The people will want to see her suffer for not still being hung up over Finn after everyone spoke of it as the greatest love story since the Rebellion, a love story where they loved each other so much, they wanted to die together. After they made her say it over and over again during her victory tour, who could believe otherwise? They _will_ want her to suffer, will want Bellamy to suffer, too.

She opens and closes her mouth soundlessly, fidgeting in her seat. Then, she makes up her mind. If they want to play this game, so can she. Adding fuel to the fire, like Lincoln said. They can't do anything worse to them than they already have. All she can hope is Bellamy will understand and forgive her.

"Well, I was very lucky. Luckier than most I guess," she pauses, clearing her throat lightly. She wants to look backstage, but forces herself not to. "It was never like that with Bellamy—not before. After my Games, after Finn, I wasn't sure I could ever love again."

Cage feigns an empathic expression, reaching over to put her hand over his. That manipulative ass knows just how to spin everything in his favor, never looking like the bad guy. "He was there for you?"

"He was. He understood what I had went through in that arena, what they're making us go through again," she sniffs, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible. Her fingernails press into the palms of her skin, creating crescent moon-shaped welts. "He… He helped me love again, and—he made me want to be alive. "

"It's gift! Something so beautiful growing out of the Games," Cage gushes, looking over at the crowd who 'oh' and 'ah' over a new picture of her and Bellamy. This time it's one from a few days ago, in the training centre. He's holding her hand and she's looking up at him smiling. If she didn't know any better, she'd think they were in love too.

"Yeah," Clarke responds, softly, corners of her mouth turned up in a weak smile. "And I wouldn't have any regrets at all. If it weren't…" She swallows thickly, fists balling on top of her thighs. This could quite literally be the final nail in her coffin. "If.."

"If what?" Cage shifts closer to her, on the edge of his seat like the people in the audience, breathless. Clarke's heart pounds loudly, and for a second even she thinks she might not go through with it. But, they are forcing the hand of a girl who's so desperate, she'll say anything, do anything.

The silence can't be more than two seconds, but in that small span of time, her heart manages to squeeze is about seventeen breakneck beats. People gasp loudly as she reveals, tongue darting out to wet her red-stained lips in doubt, "If it weren't for the baby."

If the capital was willing to let a pregnant woman go into the arena, it would confirm the lengths they would go to to enforce compliance. Nobody was safe. It could be the final straw that breaks the camel's back.

Cage looks shocked, mouth agape, as he watches her wipe a tear of her cheek. "This is news to all of us." He turns to the crowd—who are now yelling for the Games to be called off, stopped, cancelled—trying to defend himself. "Please calm down!"

"I have another surprise," she cuts in, eyeing Cage knowingly before addressing the crowd directly. Their shouts simmer down as they watch her expectantly. She rises to her feet, shaking nervously.

She walks to the front of the stage, looking down at her dress. The arrows wrapped around her body are supposed to represent her district, like always. When she spins, tentative at first but then more sure, the sequins fall off and disappear into nothing. The crowd gasps, and she looks down as they start to applaud her loudly. It's the Mockingjay, in gold shiny sequins, splayed all over her stomach, bottom of her dress faux-flaming. The girl on fire.

For a little extra drama, she puts her hand on top of the image of the bird. Like she's seen the pregnant woman in the village do before. The audience breaks into shouts again as she's rushed off the stage by Peacekeepers Cage had been motioning for ever since she got up to her feet.

She just barely catches a glance of Bellamy before he has to go onto the stage. She'd wanted to apologize, for putting him on the spot like that. This wasn't fair, not to him—she knew that, after all that happened, after _it was my mistake to make it out to be something it wasn't_ —but she hoped he'd understand that it was for the best. That they had to play along with their game, play it better than them.

Anya pulls her to the side by the elbow, muttering lowly, "Wow. The baby thing was a stroke of genius, Griffin." The other tributes either stared at her in disgust or awe, it was hard to tell these days.

She can't help but grin as she watches Cage squirm in his seat, having dug his own grave as he tries to have small talk with Bellamy. He can't avoid the baby topic, and inevitably, when they start talking about it, how _ecstatic_ Bellamy had been when he found out, the crowd goes of into another fit of hysterics. Finally, it comes to a point where the lights dim and the audience is escorted outside, Cage stammering off into the dark about odds being in their favor before the cameras are shutting down as well.

Bellamy doesn't look upset when he comes off the stage to meet them. At least, he wouldn't have been, if she didn't know him so well. There's the slightest of tension in his shoulders, his fingers digging into his palms, the small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he informs her, "Quick thinking, princess."

"Bell, I'm sorry," she says, voice hushed as her eyes dart around them to check and see if no one is listening, fingers coming up to wrap around his wrist. Anya is already a feet ahead of them, arms crossed over her chest petulantly, trying to give them their privacy in her own way.

"No, Clarke," he insists, stern, the tension more palpable now as his brow furrows together in frustration. He's trying to act like it's all fine, but something's off and it has her on edge. "It's okay. I get it. You did what you had to do to survive out there."

She blinks up at him stupidly, grip on his wrist tightening as his words finally registered in her brain. She shakes her head vehemently. "It wasn't like that."

"I knew you could lie and act to get your way, Clarke. I just didn't know you could do it that well," he admits, finally, voice gruff as he ducks his head to avoid her gaze, but she can see that his eyebrows are pinched together in a deadly glare. He _is_ mad.

It all clicks into place at once. He thinks she made it all up to save her own ass and wasn't bothered by how he'd feel; hearing all that, hearing her say it with a smile on her face. He really thinks she could never mean any of it. That it was all just part of the game.

Stammering, she stares up at him, licking her dry lips before swallowing, tight, trying to swallow down the feeling of her heart being up in her throat. She reaches up to hug him, desperate, but he's stiff under her touch. She pulls him even closer, burying her face into his neck as she whispers, soft, "It wasn't all a lie." It wasn't. Most days—in the most darkest of times, when she saw no way out of the pain and the nightmares—the only reason she didn't end her life was Bellamy. He has to belief that, at least. She presses a kiss right there, repeats it, until he finally hugs her back.

After a moment, she steps away, looking up at him. He still looks a little out of it, maybe not sure what's real and what's not anymore, but he meets her gaze at least, reaching for her hand. She hopes he forgives her because he believes her, not just because she's Clarke. Anya motions over to the elevator, pushing the button repeatedly and effectively bringing them back to reality.

It opens, and they break apart, stepping inside as Bellamy pushes the button for the last floor, their apartment. The doors are just about to shut, when someone's hand slides up around one of them, holding it open. It's Echo.

She smirks at them as she leans over to click on her own floor, keeping her back to the door as she starts reaching for the zipper of her dress. There's white makeup dotted under her eyes, Azgeda tradition. "I couldn't wait to get out of this thing. My stylist is such a bitch. I swear she makes me wear these awful, tight, itchy designs on purpose."

Clarke just stares at her, unimpressed and arms crossed over her chest defensively, as Echo lets out a sigh of relief as she can finally let the dress drop to her feet. She's naked underneath, and she looks good, too. _Of course_. In a different life, Clarke would've been really attracted to her.

Anya is looking up at the ceiling with a murderous glare, lips pursed in disdain, Bellamy's eyes wide as he doesn't know where to look, darting around from her body to the wall to the ceiling and back. Clarke clenches her jaw as she glances over at him, briefly. _It's not like he hasn't seen it before_.

Echo looks pleased as the elevator finally dings, revealing they've reached her floor. She flips her wavy brown hair over her shoulder. "Well, this was fun." She steps out, stretching her hands over her head.

"Oh. Congrats on the baby, by the way," she smirks over her shoulder, malicious glint in her eyes as she glances over at the both of them before she finally disappears back around the corner.

Clarke just huffs in partial agreement as Anya breathes sharply, "I fucking hate Azgedians. I hope she dies first." Bellamy is quiet until they reach their apartment and she tries not to let it bother her. They might be having an imaginary baby together, but he doesn't owe her anything.

.

It's the night before the Games and she finds herself perched in front of the same long windows in their living room as last time, staring out into Polis. They span the entire height of the wall, from floor to ceiling, a concrete window seat in front of it. In some ways, it's ironic.

A couple hours in, Bellamy traipses into the room and sits down across from her wordlessly. She'd promised to join him in his room earlier, and he must've realized she wasn't coming at this point.

"Can I say something?" She starts, after the silence has stretched between the two of them long enough. She can't say all of the things she's ever wanted to but she can say some of them. He shifts his head against the wall to look at her, puzzled, but nods anyway.

She sits up and leans forward, tongue darting out to wet her lips. With a smile, she announces, blunt, "I didn't like you at first, that's no secret." Her mind flashes back to who they were before, before her games, briefly. All the pompous smirks and heated looks, the misunderstandings and useless arguments.

"I never noticed," he counters, without any real heat, probably still wondering where this is going as he slings an arm over his knee.

She smiles faint, as she continues, "Then I realized, that everything you did, you did it to protect your sister. Because of that, you had to protect yourself as well, a really poor defense mechanism that made you an absolute ass."

He snorts half-heartedly, raising an eyebrow, but he remains quiet as he wrings his hands together. The moonlight highlights his strong bone structure. She remembers the sponsors he got her, every nightmare she's had in his bed, every hug they've ever shared, every hand splayed across her back to calm her down, every warm little smile he's ever given her.

Her voice grows serious, a little shaky as she leans forward. "Bellamy, you have to promise me—when we go in there, you can't just… You've got such a big heart," is what she settles on, finally, still racking her brain how to word this in an understandable way. She folds her hand over his chest, all facetiousness gone from her face as she searches his eyes. She has to tell him this, has to make sure he knows in case they get separated or, or _worse_.

She has to tell him, because even though she promised not to, she watched his Games. And she, she remembers the look on his face when he couldn't save Charlotte, too. The look in his eyes when he hit the tribute that impaled her with a rock until he was beyond recognition. How he sat there, crying, for hours, exposed and vulnerable. He wasn't thinking about his own protection, and she can't have it happen again. She can't live if he doesn't. So he must.

"The only way to make sure we survive is if you use this, too." She adds, moving her hand to press two fingers to his temple. His forehead creases and there's a beat. He sucks in a sharp breath, throatily uttering, "Clarke… I still got you for that, don't I?"

She can't say it out loud. She's so close, and it'd be so easy, to just lean over, and brush her lips against his. Something holds her back. Her hand slides down to rest on his shoulder, she trains her eyes right below his chin. "If anything happens to me, please take care of—"

"Nothing is happening to you," he cuts her off, commanding and stern, as his free hand comes up to rest over her elbow. She knows this feels a lot like goodbye, but it wasn't like that. It was a _just in case_.

Quietly, she whispers, "Promise. Promise me that you'll make it out of there." She needs to hear it. Needs to hear that he'll at least try. It's not fair, and he can't actually promise her, not when it's not in his hands, but she wants him to choose himself over her, if—when it comes down to it.

He stares at her, for a moment, conflicted and doubtful, then, more for her than him, breathes, "Promise." It's quite possibly the first lie he's ever told her but she feels like she can take the first fresh breath ever since his name was called.

His eyes are so resolute, so dark on hers, piercing right through all of her walls she's worked so hard to keep up. He takes his arm off his knee to lean forward and tug on her braid, softly. He leans closer to her, meeting her in the middle, their foreheads almost brushing together.

Her hands feel clammy all of a sudden, her mouth dry. She's nervous all of a sudden. Which is stupid, because it's not like this is her first kiss or anything. That honor belonged to Niylah Murchadh when she was fourteen. She seemed to know what she was doing, even if Clarke had no clue. It was good. There was Finn, even if that kiss was never really romantic in her eyes, didn't count. With Lexa, there was never so much pressure. She _definitely_ knew what she was doing by then. Hell, she's even kissed Bellamy before. But that was her, this is him.

Pulse abnormally high because of his proximity, he smoothes some hair away from her face with his thumb. Lamely, she croaks out, eyes darting to his lips briefly, "Don't tell Anya this, but uhh, you were always my favorite."

He grins, special just for her, and she can feel his warm breath against her skin. There's another beat, and then tilts up his chin slightly to press a kiss against her forehead before pulling away. Her heart hammers loudly in her chest, slightly disappointed, feeling cold at the loss of contact.

It is probably best, not to go there again, to not complicate it. She musters up a weak smile, trying to seem as unaffected as possible and forcing her heart rate to go back to normal. "We should try to get some sleep, right?"

He sighs, tearing his eyes off the city before pinching the bridge of his nose as he shifts to get off. Tugging on her hand, he replies, "Yeah, come on."

.

Clarke's entire body shakes as she's slowly launched into the arena, cheeks wet with tears as she stares at nothing. They just beat Lincoln to a pulp right in front of her, her friend, for the dress or to—or to, startle her, throw her off her game. Both needless reasons. She was helpless, banging at the glass of her tube to no avail. They wanted him dead, and they wanted her to see.

She's elevated into the arena, emerging in a crouch. Sixty seconds on the clock. The first thing she notices is all the water, it's everywhere, as far as she can see, surrounding all 24 of them. Fifty seconds. She tries to find Bellamy, but she can't, the cornucopia in the middle blocking her line of sight. She wants to step off her plate to get a better look, but she'll be blown up. Forty seconds. She eyes the cornucopia. It's filled with supplies, weapons, nothing else. Thirty seconds. Lincoln, he just tried to help her. Will the bloodshed ever stop? When will it be enough? Twenty seconds. She's flanked by two Careers, they'll go after her either way. There's stone- and pebble covered spokes leading from their plates to the cornucopia as well, but they start out narrow, look slippery. The risk of falling off is too big. She's a good swimmer, especially after the few months she had with Lexa.

The countdown reaches its last ten seconds and Clarke makes up her mind, anger seeping through every cell in her body. She's not going to run away, not after what they did to Lincoln. She has to get to those supplies. She balls her fists, adjusting her stance before the timer goes off and she dives into the cold water.

She's fast, luckily faster than the two careers who jumped in right behind her. She hoists herself on top of the island surrounding the cornucopia as soon as she reaches it, racing to get to the bow and arrow and the bags of supplies. When she turns to go back into the water and get to the shore to find Bellamy, she immediately startles, stopping dead in her tracks. Mbege from district 9 is pulling his arm back and about to throw his spear at her—when he is hit in the chest with an axe.

Clarke's chest heaves up and down erratically as she blinks at his dead body, frozen in fear as she watches Luna saunter over to him, put her foot on top of his chest and pull the axe out without any difficulty. Her normally wavy hair hangs flatly over her shoulders, still wet from the sea as she motions for her to follow her, jaw clenching at the doubtful, suspicious look on Clarke's face.

"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have saved your life just now."

Tentatively, Clarke scrambles after her, rounding the corner of the cornucopia, slinging the bag and bow over her shoulder. She can't really trust her now, even if she did save her life. She's just the best way of getting to the shore alive. Luna pulls up short abruptly, the blonde colliding into her back.

Sienna, one of the Careers that was after her earlier is climbing out of the water quickly, lunging for Luna. The latter counters by swinging at her with her axe, but Sienna ducks, pulling at her ankles so she doubles over on the ground, slick from wetness. They start rolling over, hitting each other and trying to get each other's hands around the other one's neck. All of a sudden, Sienna wraps her arm around Luna's shoulders, rolling onto her back as she pulls the arm towards her by bracketing her other hand on her wrist, effectively choking the other woman.

Clarke jumps into action, taking off her bow and arrow and pointing it at the woman. She just smiles devilishly. "If you kill me, I snap her ne—" Clarke fires the bow right into her head and she shuts up. If there's one thing she's learned it's that you should never hesitate. She offers Luna a hand, helping her up before flinging her stuff back over her shoulder. The brunette nods at her in acknowledgement, hands rubbing the raw and red skin at her neck, which is probably the biggest thank you she's ever going to get from her.

They circle the cornucopia for another few feet, before she spots Bellamy, running towards them on one of the spokes. He hasn't seen them yet. Elated he's alive, as she hasn't been counting the cannons, she rushes forward, but Luna pulls her back just as she realizes he's being chased. The man chasing him catches up to him and tackles him, both of them disappearing under the water. The water bubbles, indicating a struggle. Luna acts quick, diving into the water to close the distance between them and where they went in the water, but she halts as a cannon goes off and a body floats to the surface.

Clarke's heart actually stops beating, breath catching in the back of her throat as she stares at the body. Finally, Bellamy emerges, gasping for air and tears spring into her eyes. She crouches down to help him as soon as he reaches her, hugging him tightly as he rises to his feet. As she pulls back, she wants to say something, anything, but she doesn't know what. He just squeezes her hand.

Luna eyes them warily, water dripping down her suit, then informs them, "We should get to the shore. It's not safe here."

.

Eight people died during the bloodbath, they find out during their trek away from the water and into the woods. Sienna; the female tributes from district five, six and seven; both district eight tributes; Mbege and Luna's district partner Tristan.

She's treading lightly ahead, keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, whatever that may be. Luna and Bellamy were talking in low voices, not far behind. She could tell he was still vigilant when it came to her.

"What is in it for you?" He asks her, voice gruff. Branches snap underneath their feet.

"Today, people—one of which I loved—died. Needlessly. Some at my hand," she sounds steady, a sigh in her voice. "I promised myself a long time ago I wouldn't let that happen again. I don't kill without reason. As long as you don't attack me, we'll be fine."

Bellamy is quiet for a moment, and so is she. Clarke slows her pace. Something feels off. Something about their surroundings. It doesn't sound like a forest. It sounds—like static, almost. The weather is hot, stuffy, a thin layer of sweat covering their skin. It's making it hard to think clearly.

"She's lucky to have you," Luna breaks the silence, probably thinking Clarke is too far ahead to hear. Her tone is prudent. "You keep her centered."

He scoffs, unimpressed, and it sounds like he's pushing through some bushes. "You got it backwards."

Clarke decides to turn back at this moment, braid flipping over her shoulder. She opens her mouth to say something, but then her eyes bulge as Bellamy tries and cut some lianas away, she tries to stop him, opens her mouth to cry out his name—a surge of power blasting him backwards into a tree.

"He hit a forcefield," Luna curses, sinking down on her knees beside him. No, no, no. "He's not breathing."

Absolute heart wrenching panic spreads from the back of her neck to the tips of her fingers as she stares at his motionless body. Clarke pushes Luna aside roughly, her healer training taking over as she starts to apply compressions to his chest with her hands. Stopping after a couple dozen times, she tilts his head back, blowing air into his lungs. "Bellamy," she pleads, voice weak as tears spill down her cheeks. Her hand trembles as she brings it up to his face to push some damp hair away from his forehead. Please. She'll do whatever, whatever it takes.

Luna puts her hand on her shoulder, most likely to get her to give up, but Clarke won't budge, jerking her shoulder away as she starts up compressions again. He can't die. If he dies, she dies. "Come on— You've, you've got to, to w-wake up. Come on."

"Clarke," Luna urges, gently, collapsing on her knees beside her after another minute passes. Again, she lifts her hand, placing it between Clarke's shoulder blades this time. She shakes her head, almost hysterically, as she takes her quivering hands off his chest and leans back down to ventilate when he surges awake with a sharp intake of air.

Luna scrambles onto her feet in surprise, as Clarke cries out his name. Without thinking, she leans down to press her mouth against his. He kisses her back after a second, her fingers curled into his suit. When she pulls away, just a few inches, he smiles, frail and sluggish. "I think you missed a forcefield back there, princess."

"Your heart—it stopped," she stammers, a whole certified mess, uncurling her fists to press them against his chest instead and his crooked smile widens, eyes drooping closed. "Well, luckily I still got my head."

"Shut up," she hisses, without any heat as she helps him up to his feet. She thought he was dead and now he is alive. Still alive. They're good. No cannon was fired.

Luna regards them with a curious look. Finally she speaks. "The forcefield… This arena is a dome. We're at the edge." She throws a rock forward, and it bounces back, making her point. She sighs, observing their surroundings closely . "There's no signs of fresh water. Even better, it's gonna be dark soon enough."

Clarke tears her eyes away from Bellamy for the first time, still clinging onto him rather pathetically. "You have any good news?"

"Well, this is a good of a place to settle in for the night as any. Our backs will be protected. We could take turns sleeping," she shrugs, indifferent. Clarke lets out a deep breath, reluctantly agreeing. The force fields are a given that no one can come for them from behind. A blessing in disguise. "I'll keep first watch."

Bellamy looks like he wants to protest, but she sends him a stern look and instead he sinks down against a nearby tree, shoulders slumping over in fatigue. She turns back to Luna, who just raises her eyebrows before holding up both palms in mock surrender, laying down right where she is standing.

Clarke sighs, shoulders rigid with tension as she settles down beside Luna. She's tired and thirsty, and it's hard to keep her eyes open. She picks up a thick branch and starts working at it with her knife, to keep herself busy. At one point she must've dozed off, because she wakes abruptly, startled by the sound of someone calling her name.

"Clarke," a female voice calls out, soft, like she's crying. Clarke scrambles to a crouch, pushing against Luna's leg to wake her up. She justs lifts her head, like she'd already been awake, a crease in her brow.

Clarke opens her mouth but Luna shakes her head quickly, putting a finger to her lips, indicating she'd heard as well. The blonde crawls over to Bellamy, folding her hand around his ankle and shaking it lightly. His eyes open with a sharp intake of breath, but the surprise leaves his face when he sees her. He looks confused. She points to her ear, as the voice repeats her name once again.

"Clarke, help me, please," the voice says again, this time louder, like she's closer. Clarke surges to her feet, heart pounding loudly in her throat. It sounds like her—"Clarke, sweetheart, I love you."—mother. "Mom," she cries out, immediately running after the sound.

"Clarke, don't," Bellamy exclaims, rising to his feet. He winces, still sore from his near-death experience. Luna is right on her heels, trying to grab her by the arm but Clarke jerks away. The blonde looks at her like she's crazy when the other tribute tells her, urges her, "It's just an illusion, they're trying to get to you!" She points up at a black bird with a finger. "Look, it's a jabberjay!"

"Jabberjays copy, Luna! How do you think they got that sound?" Clarke snaps, eyes darting around to find the source of the sound. Her mother is crying now, sobbing quietly. No matter what happened between them, no matter how much she hates her mom, she still loves her, too.

"Luna," another voice whispers this time, male. Then, a yelp of pain. Luna's chest heaves up and down erratically, her eyes wild as she calls out, "Elio?" Luna disappears further into the woods, and they can only hope she doesn't run into a forcefield or a tribute who isn't as affected. Either way, Bellamy can't do much.

He tries to reach them, but he's stopped by a flicker of light indicating a forcefield, separating him from the two women. It must've come up when they reached the part of the woods with the jabberjays. The voices aren't real, they can't be—Luna killed Elio herself. He died. They sound real, now just screams of torture, for help, for Clarke and Luna to make it stop.

"Clarke, it's not real! Look at me," he yells, but since she doesn't even look up to acknowledge him—he can only watch her cry out in pain, covering her ears as she falls down, rocking herself—he figures she can't hear him. "They're just mutts!" They _have_ to be muttations, have to be. What kind of arena is this? He sinks down on the ground in front of her, and waits.

.

About an hour later, Bellamy has his arms around the both of them, trying to get them over to the beach. They're probably safest there, from the mutts and the force fields. He received a spile from a sponsor while Luna and Clarke were otherwise occupied, and managed to jam it into a tree to get water. He fed it to them both, using big leaves for transport.

Clarke was just staring straight ahead, dazed, clinging onto his waist. Luna was shivering all over, kept whispering ' _I give myself to the miracle of the sea_ ' over and over and over again, one of Bellamy's arms wrapped around her shoulders so he could lead her in the right direction.

At one point, Luna's knees give out and she collapses onto the ground, one hand tightly wrapped around Bellamy's sleeve. He takes a look at Clarke to see if she's okay, and for the first time since the jabberjays she actually makes eye contact, nodding at him. Her eyes are still red and swollen from crying, cheeks tear-streaked as she bites on the inside of her cheek, but she seems more like herself. Then, he lets go of her and kneels down to brush some untamed hair away from Luna's face, so he can look at her.

"Luna, we have to keep walking," he urges, gently, with a sigh as she rocks herself back and forth, repeating the same phrase over and over. "We're out in the open."

"This is what I deserve," she whimpers finally, eyes everywhere but on him, still quivering. He puts his hand on her shoulder as a gesture of comfort, but she flinches away from him. "It's what I deserve, isn't it?"

"Nobody deserves to suffer," Bellamy presses, as he takes out the bottle they filled up earlier and offers it to her. Clarke heart seizes up to ten times it size at his kindness, even when he doesn't know her, doesn't know the things she's done, has to live with. "Here, you need to drink something."

Clarke blinks at the distance a few times, arms wrapped around herself, a white cloud of fog rolling up behind Bellamy and Luna. She squints harder, trying to make out what exactly it is, when her head snaps to her foot as something makes contact with it. _Bugs_ , she realizes, eyes rounding, _they're running away from it_.

"We need to move," she yells urgently, moving to grab Luna by the arm to help Bellamy lift her up. She can't take her eyes off the fog as it moves closer, and closer. Commanding, she adds, "Now!"

Luna stumbles, falling down again and Clarke crouches down beside her to help her back up. She hisses as her skin makes contact with the mist, and Luna cries out in pain as she grabs for the side of her face, blisters forming immediately. Her and Bellamy quickly hoist Luna up, dragging her away from the steamy cloud.

"We're not fast enough," Clarke snaps, tightening her grip on Luna's arm, trying to get her to turn back towards reality. She knows it's hard. She's never wanted to die more than during the hour she had to listen to her mother and Wells being tortured, to her dad telling her he wished she'd never been born, Octavia telling her she doesn't deserve either Blake. But they didn't, and if they don't start running now—they're all dying. "Luna, you have to _try_ and run!"

"Just leave me here," she cries out, defiant, and Clarke meets Bellamy's eyes over her shoulder. Desperate. Clarke doesn't want to consider leaving her behind, but she wonders if they actually have a choice right now. His jaw clenches, nostrils flaring as he moves to throw Luna over his shoulder, instead. He's right. It's not who they are.

They continue moving away from the mist until they eventually stagger down a hill, the fog rolling up against a force field and moving up. They're safe, she thinks, as she lifts her head off the ground, reaching to move a piece of leaf away from her cheek. She winches in pain, blisters having formed on her hands, neck and face. With great difficulty she manages to roll onto her back, lifting her head to find Bellamy and Luna groaning in pain, hands grabbing for the places they're hurting from the fog or the fall.

Clarke lets out a strangled cry of pain as her swollen hand scratches against the zipper of her suit, eyes rolling in the back of her head as she pushes it into the ground. Her head tilts back slightly, and she catches a pond of water not far away. Water could help prevent infection, maybe relieve some of the pain.

Turning back onto her stomach, she drags her body over there. She hisses in pain as she dips her hand into it, but the blister bursts open and the poison diffuses into the water. After the pain, there's instant relief. The water draws out the poison, she realizes, as she crawls further into the water until her entire body is covered in it. It's unbearable at first, and then it's good, reprieve.

She calls over the others, helps Bellamy push in Luna before he goes in himself. Luna screams in pain, but Clarke shushes her, helps her stay afloat and cups water over the blisters on her face. "You're okay."

Their skin is still red and raw where the swelling was, but it's nowhere near as bad as before. Luna stays floating in the water as Bellamy gets out the spile, jams it into a tree and cups his hands under it, drinking the water that drips into them.

Clarke smoothes her thumb over a cut on his cheekbone, probably from their rapid decline down the hill. He catches her hand, squeezes her fingers. "I'm fine," he presses, then he shifts his head to look at her, searching her face. He fills their bottle, clasps her fingers around it and urges her to drink. "How are you?"

"They sounded real," she defends herself, lamely, and he inclines his head, gives her a pointed look. She knows he wasn't trying to patronize her, or blame her. Still, she feels stupid. Weak. They were just trying to mess with her, and she let them. She sighs, presses her eyes closed as she rubs her forehead. "I don't know. Were we ever?"

He offers a tight lipped, knowing smile that's sad around the edges instead of responding as he watches her drink. They're silent for a moment. He watches Luna float on her back, she's finally stopped shaking, so that's good, at least. "You trust her?" Clarke asks, finally, quiet, as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and puts the cap back on it.

He lifts a shoulder, indifferent. "Do we have a choice?"

"Hey," she croaks out softly, nudging him with her elbow lightly as she gazes up at him. "Even if we can't—we still got each other, right? Together."

He moves his head to flip some curls out of his eyes, as he grins, confident, as he brushes his knuckles against her hand. His face is clean, safe from a few scrapes and cuts. "That's a mortal lock."

Suddenly, the water ripples as Luna soars up abruptly. Her eyes look clear, safe from the faint trail of blood down the side of her face. She must've hit her head on their way down. She nods at something behind them, barely moving as she trains her eyes on it. They both stiffen, Bellamy's hand immediately reaching for the knife strapped to his leg.

"Don't move," Luna demands, unwavering, as she moves quietly and deliberately slow in the water, reaching for her axe besides their backpacks. Water drips down her shoulders and it's all Clarke can focus on, to try and keep a steady heartbeat.

All at once, Luna raises the axe as Bellamy tackles her into the water, the axe flying through the air and missing them both by a hair. She gasps for air as she emerges from the water, Bellamy beside her trying to fight off a monkey as Luna calls out her name, throwing the bow and arrow her way as soon as her head snaps up.

The arrows hit the water and she fumbles for them, quickly. In the middle of drawing an arrow, Luna has already killed two more that lunge for her, Bellamy kicking off the monkey on top of him before slicing his knife into it's skull.

They're not real monkeys, more like mutts, their teeth and claws sharp and their eyes beaming red. Her back hits Luna's, Bellamy coming up to round out their circle as they move as an unit. They just keep coming, no matter how many they stab or shoot. They're surrounded.

"We need to get the hell away from here," Luna hisses, nudging her head to an open clearance on their left, almost like a path. In the far distance, they can vaguely make out the cornucopia, which means it's the way to the beach. Clarke reaches up to wipe away some water dripping down her nose, nodding her head, "Three, two—"

Bellamy elbows a monkey as it lunges for them, using his other hand to stab it in the neck, as they all hurry towards the clearance. The monkeys go insane; screaming, barking, hooting and grunting.

Clarke is pushed into a tree by one of them, yelping out in pain as it viciously scratches at her neck, tries to dig it's nail into her skin. She tries to reach for an arrow to jam it into his eyeball, but she can only grasp the tip slightly. Bellamy and Luna are separated from her by a wall of monkeys that they're trying to fight their way through.

She keeps trying to fight him off, but it's getting subsequently harder to breathe. Her elbow collides with something soft, and out of the corner of her eyes she can make out a tree that starts moving. Camouflage, she realizes, just as the person jumps out and tackles the monkey into the water. The mutt sinks its teeth into her, and Clarke can just make her out as Maya, the morphling addict from district ten. She whimpers as it tears the skin right off her neck, and she chokes, blood squirting everywhere.

"No," Clarke cries out, moving down to apply pressure to her neck. She just saved her life. She can't die. Maya smiles, weakly, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. "No, no, no, you're okay, your fight isn't over," she repeats, pushing her hands down harder, but someone grabs her arm, pulling her away.

It's the boy from Maya's district, Jasper, she realizes as she turns her head. He's still partly covered in camouflage material, but she can make out his face, the emptiness in his eyes, the way his hand trembles as he tightens his grip. She can't stop looking at Maya, but her head is turned to the side now, her eyes lifeless. A cannon goes off.

Jasper eyes the row of mutts that's blocking the path to Bellamy and Luna, and the beach, then he pushes her as far away from him as he can, knocking her against a tree. "See you on the other side," he exclaims, saluting, before he yells at the top of his lungs, pouncing for the mutts so the other tributes have enough time to get away, all of them diving towards him, the source of the sound.

Clarke yells out a protest, eyes wide as she scrambles to her feet to try and help him, but she only ends back in the water, Bellamy rushing to her side to help her up, dragging her away from the mutts. Another cannon goes off as they rush through the woods, Bellamy pulling her along, and tears leak down her face.

Jasper and Maya, they sacrificed themselves, so they could live. Why would they do that? Why would they just—she can't think about it any longer, collapsing on top of the sand as soon as they reach the beach, chest heaving up and down heavily.

Luna mutters something about going to catch some fish, Bellamy toppling down beside her. She digs her hands into the sand, can't look at the blood on them. She stares out onto the water, slight breeze blowing some lose strands from her face. "They sacrificed themselves for me."

"They did," he agrees, eyes fixed on the profile of her face. She can't meet his eyes.

"It doesn't make any sense," she breathes, shakily, finally daring to look down at her hands, moving them through the sand to rest beside her as she draws her knees up to her chest. She is nobody, why would they give their lives?

"It makes sense to me," he claims, delicately, fingers moving to cover one of her hands, and she turns her head to look at him, surprised at his admission. She swallows, tightly, as she searches his face. _Of course_ he would sacrifice himself for her, what wouldn't he do? She feels warm all over, leaning in to press her mouth against his. Hard.

His hand comes up to tangle into her hair, messing up her braid completely, as he presses closer, supporting his weight with his other hand. She opens her mouth, lips barely parted or his tongue is already brushing against hers. Her brain shuts down instantly. Every thought, little fear, awful memory, each concern and all the anxiety disintegrating at the flick of his tongue. Her fingers press down into his shoulder, trying to get him closer. She's dizzy and lightheaded, but it's okay.

She still can't make herself think about it, what it all means. Just knows she wants to, has to do this now. Needs it. They can talk about it when they get out of here. It's useless, otherwise, to waste their time discussing the details of it all.

They're interrupted when Luna appears all of a sudden, dropping a large fish at their feet, startling them. She just quirks an eyebrow before falling down beside Clarke. The blonde quickly wipes at her wet mouth, flushing all over as she glances over at Bellamy, briefly. He just offers her a smile, faintly amused, as he gets to work on filing the fish with his knife. She wouldn't have noticed the blush on his cheeks if she didn't know him so well, didn't spend hours at night trying to memorize his face after she found out they had to go back.

Another cannon goes off when they're eating the raw fish—the male tribute from 6, they find out later—no supplies to make a fire and they sit up to get a better look at what caused it. It looks like a flood wave rampaged through a part of the woods, on the other side of the beach. It hits the water, flooding over the cornucopia before it spreads to the other sections of the water, over the spokes. It only causes a miniscule ripple in the water in front of them. A hovercraft comes to pick up the body.

"It's like everything is sectioned off," Bellamy mumbles, distracted, still squinting at the beach across from them, body of water stretched in between them and where the flood originated.

Not much later, lightning strikes into a tree behind the cornucopia. Another cannon goes off, sound harsh in the silence, and Clarke's shoulders stiffen as they hear yelling coming from the woods not far behind them. Luna reaches for her axe blindly, keeping her eyes fixated on wherever the sound is coming from as Bellamy clambers to his feet, putting himself in between the forest and the other two tributes.

Four people emerge from the line of trees, drenched in a dark substance from head to toe. As they come closer, it becomes clear it's blood. It's Murphy, she can tell that much, sneering at one of the others. His arm is wrapped around a girl as she coughs, clawing at her throat. Bile rises up Clarke's throat as they come closer, the warm iron smell invading her nostrils.

The girl Murphy was yelling at is shaking her head roughly, "Time is absolute in the City of Light." _Gaia_ , Clarke realizes with a reluctant smile as she closes the distance between them, the healer in her wanting to assess the damage. She rises her head to look at the blonde, smiling wide as blood drips down her dreads, but her eyes—they're almost absent, like she's not really there. "The wheels on earth keep spinning and spinning."

"Good luck with that," Murphy snaps—glaring at her as she uses her sleeve to swab blood from Gaia's eyes—patting on the back of the girl he's still holding on to, to help her cough. Clarke thinks her name is Emmae or Morrey, something like that. "The rain broke her."

"What the hell happened?" Bellamy asks, surly as he crouches down next to the fourth person, down on his knees and hands, spitting out blood on the sand. Sinclair. There's a reel of wire beside him. completely soaked.

Murphy's girl—the one who lost one of her hands in her Games, Clarke remembers now, Emori—finally catches her breath, roughly wiping some blood from her face. "We were deep in the jungle, where we thought we'd be safe. Then it started raining. We thought it was water—"

"Time is absolute—" Clarke presses her hand down on Gaia's shoulder, trying to offer her some sort of comfort, trying to calm her down, trying to shield her from the hostility oozing off the couple in front of them, before looking back at the other girl.

Emori's nostrils flare as she tries to ignore the brown girl's irrational rattling. "It was blood. Hot, thick blood, choking us. We couldn't see."

"—in the City of Light—" Gaia wraps her arms around herself, brow creasing more and more with every passing second as she starts shaking her head again. Luna turns away on her heels, teeth gritted together as mutters something about getting them drinkable water as she stalks into the forest.

"That's when Gustus hit the forcefield and Basketcase over there lost it," Murphy continues with a nudge of his head, arm still firmly wrapped around Emori's waist. Gustus was from Gaia's district, and they weren't close, not from the looks of it, but he was from home. It might be what triggered her.

"Don't call her that," Clarke hisses angrily, as Gaia starts reciting the line louder and louder. Over and over. She catches Bellamy's eyes briefly, still kneeled down next to Sinclair as he talks him through breathing through the stuffiness in his throat. He just lightly shakes his head, like it's not worth it.

"Come on," the blonde encourages Gaia, leading her over to the water, stroking her back carefully. It's not fair for them to target her when she can't defend herself, but she figures it probably _isn't_ worth it. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Emori's hand wraps around Murphy's elbow, uttering a low ' _John, don't_ ' as he stalks into Clarke's direction, but he jerks it lose. He doesn't come closer, a compromise for his girlfriend maybe, but instead yells after her, "I got them for _you_ , princess!"

She ignores Murphy and whatever shit he's talking now. She shushes Gaia as she helps her dip her body into the water, going deep enough so most of her skin is covered, but where they can both still stand.

The water seems to calm her a little as she stares up at the sky. Her voice, steady and soft, breaks the silence between them, "Time is absolute in the City of Light. The wheels on earth keep spinning and spinning." Her hands weave through the water as Clarke tries to get the blood out of her hair.

"Spinning and spinning," she murmurs, and Clarke's brow creases as she lifts her head to look at the cornucopia. _It's like everything is sectioned off_. Her eyes light up. _Spinning and spinning._ It's a clock. The arena is a clock.

"It's a clock," Clarke breathes, out loud as she blinks down at the darker woman, astonished, grabbing her by the shoulders lightly. She starts laughing, loud at Clarke's happiness. "You're a genius, Gaia!"

.

They maneuver themselves over one of the spokes leading to the cornucopia, while Clarke tries to explain her theory. Luna's out front, Bellamy next with Clarke's hand on his shoulder to steady herself, as Gaia clings onto the blonde's suit with both hands. The others follow them not far behind.

The entire arena seems to be laid out like a clock, with a new threat every hour. The threats stay within their wedge. "It's starts with lightning," Clarke elaborates as they reach the uneven, rock island supporting the cornucopia. She points at the tree in one of the wedges, even clearer now. "That big tree, at noon and midnight. It's followed by the blood rain. Jabberjays. The fog. Monkeys. That's the first five hours."

"And at 11 the big wave hits from over there," Bellamy adds, starting to understand as he nods over to where they saw the flood crash into the beach earlier.

Luna sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she searches the cornucopia. "The tail of this thing points to the tree, where the lightning strikes. That's from 12:00 to 01:00. 01:00 to 02:00 the jabberjays. Fog till 03:00. Monkeys till 04:00. The wave isn't until 10:00. What about everything else?" She cocks an eyebrow at Emori and Murphy. "Did you guys see anything?"

"Yeah, sure," he snorts in response, arms crossed over his chest defiantly. "We found the time to stand around and observe while getting smothered to death."

"It doesn't matter," Bellamy cuts them off, authoritative, obviously not in for a discussion. "As long as we steer clear of whichever sector or wedge, or whatever, is active, we'll be safe."

"Yeah, relatively," Luna mutters wistfully, staring off into the distance at the tall cedar tree poking out above the rest of the forest. There's some indecipherable noises that makes her adjust, have her on high alert and look into it's general direction cautiously, but then—

As if on queue, the island starts rotating rapidly, flinging them either off it, against the cornucopia, or on top of the rocks trying to hold on. Clarke falls in the later category, spitting out water as she inhales it, waves whooshing over the rocks, making them slippery. She tries to reach for Gaia's hand, who's barely hanging on, but her sight is blurry, getting dizzy from spinning around and the other woman disappears into the water. She shifts her head when she hears Bellamy groan, finding him not far from her, fingers wedged painfully in between the rocks as to not get thrown off either.

It finally stops, and Clarke scrambles to her feet to help Emori, who was thrown against the metal of the cornucopia, head bleeding profusely. When she turns back around, Bellamy is pulling Gaia out of the water, while Luna is hoisting herself onto the island. Murphy starts helping Sinclair relocate his reel after Clarke slaps his hand away from his girlfriend's head, snapping at him with a short, "I got this."

Bellamy's hand presses against her shoulder blade after a few moments. "You okay?" She sighs, just as Murphy appears back at their side, like the leech he is, and she instructs him to press the makeshift cloth she made from Emori's headscarf against the wound on his girlfriend's head. If he's going to be annoying, he might as well make himself useful.

"My head.. it feels.. slippery," Emori murmurs, staring at them through half-lidded eyes. Clarke presses her lips together, pressing a hand to her forehead stressfully. "It's probably just a light concussion."

"Yeah, probably," Bellamy offers half-heartedly since he doesn't know what he's talking about considering it's her expertise, hand folding around her hip automatically as she goes to stand beside him. She leans into him, feeling tired as she musters up a weak smile, trying to comfort him. He worries way too much about her.

His hand pushes some stray hair from her face and he leaves his hand there, behind her ear and the edge of her jaw, his thumb brushing over a cut on her forehead gingerly, brows pinched together. She rolls her eyes, fingers folding around his wrist to pull it down as she presses, "I'm fine."

"Time is absolute in the City of Light," they hear Gaia's voice lightly, still sitting by the water as she rocks herself and Clarke skims a hand over his arm affectionately when he remains stubbornly worried. "The wheels on earth—" There's a gasp, making everyone's head snap into her direction as they watch Shumway, one of the Careers, lodge a knife into her neck. _The noises_ , they hadn't just been the cornucopia about to drown them to death. The careers found them.

A cannon goes off as Gaia's limp body hits the ground, barely choking out some words she can't make out right before she does, a loud cry of 'no' stuck in the back of Clarke's throat. Echo appears from behind the cornucopia, pouncing for Luna. A third Career, Pike, throws a knife into Murphy and Emori's direction, missing them just by a hair. Two other tributes—the male from seven, female from nine—come for Bellamy and Clarke from behind, and Bellamy reaches for the knife strapped to his leg as he engages with them. He knocks one away from Clarke just in time, tackling him to the ground while the female tribute from nine jumps on top of his back.

It all happens so fast, Clarke fumbles to get the bow and arrow from her back. There's only two arrows left, after losing almost all of them when the island was rotating, and she misses Shumway the first time. She draws another arrow, as the Career starts leaping for her. Before he can reach her, she hits him square in the chest, letting out a small breath of relief. She turns on her heels.

Luna has her arm against Echo's neck, on top of her, but she manages to flip them, hitting her over the head with the handle of her machete. Luna cries out in pain, but Echo doesn't finish the job. Instead she gets off her, calling out for the others to pull back.

Another cannon goes off as Bellamy manages to kill the male from seven with his knife, wiping some sweat from his brow with a heavy look in his eye and then—they're gone.

"They won't attack again," Luna mentions matter-of factly, spitting out some blood as she holds her wavy hair back from her face. It makes sense. The three of them are outnumbered. Murphy snorts aggressively as he tries to help Emori up, taking a look at the cut on her cheek from Pike as his nostrils flare. "They better not."

"Let's just get off this damn island," Bellamy finalizes, gruff, trying to get the blood off his hands by wiping them on his suit. Her eyes soften at the dark, distant look on his face as she entwines their fingers, squeezing his fingers in encouragement. _Two very different things_. The blood is probably staining her skin as well, but she doesn't care. They're in this together. "It had to be done," she assures him, low, just for them, squeezing lightly.

Luna nods at his suggestion, eyes flickering over their hands for just a second before she moves over to the supplies in the middle of the cornucopia. Or whatever's left of them. "We should get what we need and leave."

"What's up with him and the wire?" Bellamy asks Murphy, breaking their moment and nodding over to Sinclair, who has the reel hugged to his chest as he stands off to the side. "Did he get it from here?"

"Yeah, almost took a knife to the back to get it, too," he retorts, eyebrows raised as he regards the older man with an apathetic look. _I got them for you, princess_. None of it makes sense.

Murphy huffs, humoured as he observes Shumway's dead body, eying the arrow inside of him as he crouches down beside it to raid him for weapons. "No kumbaya, huh?" He pulls out the arrow, and throws it at her feet. It's logical, to re-use whatever they can since she's almost out of arrows, but everything he does just feels like an attack on who she is as a person.

She grits her teeth, taking a step forward, fists balling at her sides as she draws in a sharp breathe through her nose. Bellamy holds her back, since he probably rightly assumes she is about one word away from punching him in the face. "You think this is funny?"

He snorts, derisive, a dark look in his eyes as he shakes his head lightly. "Every time that cannon goes off is music to my ears." He smirks, but it's not like all his other vomit-inducing ones. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't care about any of them."

"Good to know," she sneers back, Bellamy's grip on her wrist tightening as he pulls her away, back towards the beach. It's a good call, because she was about to murder John Murphy with her bare hands.

"Give me one good reason why we shouldn't just kill him?" She snaps as they reach the sand, and she drops her bow and arrow at her feet, jerking her wrist loose. She can already imagine the capital playing this fragment on repeat all over Polis. "He doesn't care about any of us, he just admitted it. He doesn't care about Sinclair, and he _never_ cared about Gaia—"

"Clarke," he cuts her off, almost angrily, hands on her shoulders. He sighs, heavy, deflating. "Sooner or later, you're going to have to realize you can't save everyone."

She ignores him. Can't think about it. Can only stay angry. If she stops being angry, she starts thinking about Gaia. Sweet, precious, broken Gaia. She shouldn't have left her alone. Her tongue darts out to wet her dry lips, and she presses, insistent, "Bellamy, if it comes to it—if it comes to Emori or me, or him and you, or, or, whoever—he _will_ murder us every single time. You know that, right?"

"Probably," he admits, lifting a shoulder indifferently. "But you could say the same of me." He inhales sharply, searching her eyes as his hands fall to his sides. Clarke's mouth feels dry all of a sudden, but she can't drop his gaze. "It makes sense. He would do anything to protect her."

She knows what he's implying, like he knows how she doesn't want to hear it. How she can't hear it. Not in here. But she wants to, has to, let him know that she does understand. She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose before looking back up at him. "Well, thank you. For keeping me safe."

He lifts a corner of his mouth, pressing his lips together dismissively. She grabs his wrist, tightly, insistent as she raises her eyebrows. No. He just saved her life back there, for maybe the twelfth time. Who's counting?

Bellamy huffs, humoured, as he pries her fingers lose, squeezing them before letting go. Teasingly, he says, "You don't make it easy, princess."

She rolls her eyes, even though she probably does attract the danger herself most of the time because she isn't able to shut up or not help someone or something else impulsive. She doesn't care much for her own life. Quieter, when the conversation lags and the tension builds back up, she asks, "Did you hear? What she said, I mean?" Clarke swallows thickly, the image of the knife plunging into Gaia flashing in front of her eyes, forcing the bile back down.

He frowns at first, tongue darting out to wet his cracked lips, hands perched on his sides. "I think it was something like—it was always you? And then she called you _heda_."

Clarke's brow furrows together, and she wants to ask him if he knows what it means, but she doesn't have the time. Luna drops a backpack at their feet as she and the rest finally join them. "Sinclair has a plan."

Jacapo explains the plan to them in an unexpectedly quiet, steady voice while Luna goes off to try and catch more fish in the water with the nets she knotted together out of vines, earlier. Floukru is their fishermen district, so it was second nature to her. Murphy and Emori are off to the side, talking in low voices.

The Careers are hiding out in the jungle, even though it's an absolute nightmare. The only reason they're there is because all of them are out on the beach, and they have the Careers outnumbered. If they left, they would come. It's an opportunity. During the 10:00 clock wave, the beach will be soaked with water. Then at midnight, lightning strikes the tree. If they leave the beach at dusk and head to the tree, the Careers go back to the beach. Before midnight, they run his wire from the tree to the water. Anyone in the water or on the damp sand will be electrocuted.

"How do we know the wire's not going to burn up?" Bellamy cocks an eyebrow, arms crossed over his chest pensively.

Sinclair snickers, before smiling, bright and almost proud, and it's the first time Clarke recalls seeing him without a frown or frightened expression on his face. "Because I invented it and I assure you that won't happen."

She exchanges a wary look with Bellamy. It's better than hunting the Careers down. If the plan fails, there's no harm done anyway. She clears her throat lightly, she inquires, "What can we do to help?"

His grin widens, almost giddy at his own joke. "It would be extremely _helpful_ if you kept me alive for the next few hours."

Bellamy nods, tells him they will and then turns to her to inform her he's going to go help Luna catch some dinner. She wants to make a playful jab at him trying to help someone who was literally raised in the fisherman district catch fish, but she feels too drained to be light and joyful.

He didn't invite her to come, so she's left alone with the others. Sinclair takes his coil and goes to sit down next to Murphy and Emori, probably because he feels like there's safety in numbers. It's gotten him this far. Clarke just glares into their general direction, because no way is she sitting anywhere near that rat and his girlfriend, so she just stretches out in front of the shoreline.

She takes out a knife, just in case, and picks up a thick, washed up branch, probably leftovers from the last big wave. She starts working on sharpening it, just to have something to do with her hands that isn't strangling John Murphy. Being angry takes a lot of energy, but it's worth it, considering the alternative.

She doesn't know how much time passes, but at one point someone settles down beside her. It's probably Bellamy. He takes her hand off the knife, putting something in her palm. It's definitely Bellamy. Her hand is cramped from the repetitive motion so it trembles a little as she examines the object in her hand.

It's a small shell, a spiral running from the tip to the opening at the base, no bigger than the nails on her fingers. It was completely pearlescent, shining with the colors of the ocean. Blues and greens swirled together and shining prettily in the late afternoon sun.

Her forehead creases as she lifts her head to look at him skeptically. He tries hard to hide a grin. "Because you were being so so _shell_ over here."

An involuntary laugh bubbles out of her as she knocks her shoulder into his, as he finally lets himself smile. Somehow he's making this awful experience just a little bit more bearable. She shakes her head lightly, feigning being impressed. "Wow. How long did you have to think about that one?"

"Just two hours," he deadpans, leaning back on his hands as he stares out at the water. The laughter fades, their smiles dim and a heavy silence falls over them for a moment or two.

"I think the plan's going to work," she breaks the silence finally, voice low to make sure no one overhears as she gently puts away the shell in the inside chest pocket of her suit. Next she straps the knife back to her leg.

"I think so, too," he admits, eyes still fixated ahead soberly. She wants to know what he's thinking, and it's hard to tell when he won't look at her.

She pulls her knees up and hugs them to her chest, sighing. She rests her forehead on top of them for a moment, wistfully, before looking back at the side of his face, wetting her lips. "Once the Careers are dead, we both know what happens next."

They can pretend they're a unit all they want, but as soon as the us vs. them mentality is over, they'll turn on each other, too. He seems to be thinking about the exact same thing.

"You and I both know there's only one person walking out of here, and it's gonna be one of us, okay?" Bellamy presses, almost urgently as his head finally turns to look at her instead. He's trying to be tactical and in any other moment, she would've teased him about it. "The Careers are still out there. We should stick with this group until midnight. As soon as we hear a cannon, we go." He nods, solemnly, gaze intense. "You and me."

She frowns, but nods anyway, as she reaches out to put her hand on top of his thigh tentatively. His plan makes sense, they should separate from the others at the first chance they get. But there's something about his voice, something so desperate yet resigned—it's making her worried. He's her person, her people. Softly, she says, "Bell."

He inhales sharply, gritting his teeth together. He looks angry at himself. Finally, he confesses, "It has to be you, Clarke."

She bites back a sneer, because why the hell does he keep putting her life above his when he's so—he's _special_. She collects her thoughts for a moment as he searches her face. Eventually, she starts, "If you die and I live—" She shakes her head at herself as her voice trails off, her palms get sweaty and her heart rate increases. She's not sure she can tell him what she's really thinking about. Then, "I would have nothing."

"Clarke," he starts, gentle but choked as he puts one hand on top of hers, still on his thigh. He opens and closes his mouth soundlessly, like he's still trying to find a way to formulate his thoughts into something coherent.

She knows how hard it is, because this feeling—these feelings she has for him. They may or may not be romantic, she doesn't know. Both times she allowed herself to feel something romantically for someone, or there was even a hint of romance, they died. Some irrational part of her seems to think that might happen to him, too. They might also just be a weird symptom of the co-dependent relationship they build during their time in the Victor's Village, because they relied on each other to get through the days. She mostly relied on him, if she's being honest.

"No, it's different for you. You have Octavia," she presses dismissively, forces a smile on her face because she's not supposed to be frustrated at the fact he has someone else beside her when she doesn't.

She's spent a lot of time thinking about it. Thinking about who would care if she died. Her mother would be devastated, but she would survive, might even think it was for the best, after the so-called monster she's become that probably reminds her a little too much of herself. And her former best friend hasn't seen her in so long—the _real_ her, the person she's become, a person he might not even recognize—that hearing about her death might have the same effect on him as the news of a distant family member dying. Octavia will be sad for losing a friend, but—she'll survive. They'll all survive.

The more she thinks about it, the more she realizes the only person who might really suffer is Bellamy. He thinks of her too highly, thinks too little of himself, depends on her, too. She doesn't like to think about that, what it means.

Her voice shakes just slightly as she continues, free hand digging into the sand. "I pushed Wells away, and my mom—I don't care much about how she feels nowadays," she swallows tightly, lifting her hand out of the sand to rest on his forearm. She leans her temple against his shoulder briefly, then sighs. "Your sister needs you. You have to live. For her."

"Nobody needs me, Clarke," he snaps, pulling his hand back as he sits forward, surprising her. His whole body is tense, his brows knitted together. "Octavia is safe now, she can take care of herself. Your mom loves you, and I _know_ you—one of these days you'll be able to forgive her. Wells will come around, too. If he hasn't already."

"I do," she forces out, and it sounds too strained. She curses herself mentally because of her inability to show vulnerability in fear of looking weak, but it's Bellamy, just Bellamy, so her eyes flutter closed for a moment as she urges, "I need you."

When she finally builds up enough courage to open her eyes and look at him directly, he's already staring at her face with such unadulterated fondness and slight confusion, she can't do nothing else but show him. How much she needs him. She leans closer, giving him enough time to back away even if she knows he won't, until her forehead is pressed against his. She's so close she can taste him before her lips even touch his. Her throat is dry, and she tries to wet it by swallowing. He lets out a harsh breath, almost impatiently, eyes fixated on her mouth. It's so cute, it makes her smile.

Of course he wouldn't make the first move. He was too consumed with doing the right thing, when it came to her, when it came to everything. Finally she closes the small distance between them, lips pressing against his. Her hand slides onto his chest, her mouth opening for him as she boldly meets his tongue with her own. She loves the needy yet uncertain way he kisses her, how his fingers tighten around her arm, the way he makes her face feel warm and her heart flutter. Their breaths quicken, there's a practically unbearable ache in her chest like her heart's too big for the cage of ribs, his other hand moving up into her hair, and they're almost frantic now, trying to get as close as possible until—until someone clears their throat, loudly.

"There's already a baby in there, lovebirds," Emori announces, monotone, dumping some small logs at their feet. Clarke's neck blotches furiously red at the implication, even if Bellamy doesn't even bat an eyelash. "They're skinning the fish, I got the wood, you guys can make the fire."

He nods at Emori before she retreats back to the others, turning back to her with a small close-lipped grin. His mouth is still red from kissing, and it makes her lower belly feel warm as she hides her own smile into the crook of his neck, hugging her legs to her chest, embarrassed. His chest rumbles with quiet laughter and she pulls back to look at him, leaning her cheek on her knee. She appreciates his smooth olive skin, the freckles splayed across it, the intensity of his brown eyes. A hand comes up to touch her face, his thumb tracing the shape of her brow.

"We should probably make that fire," she mumbles, absentmindedly. It's quiet, except for the crashing of the waves onto the shore and a low distant murmuring coming from the rest of the group. She's trying to decide if he looks better in the pale moonlight, or covered in the warm, orange sun rays, like now. She wishes she could stay in this moment forever. "Before Emori comes back."

"Yeah," he breathes, humoured as he sits up, brushing some sand off his suit as he shoots a wary look over to the woman in question. Emori isn't particularly big or strong-looking, not even with the facial tattoos and the partly shaved skull, but it's in the way she carries herself. She's a victor from district eleven, a district almost as poor as twelve, which makes her a survivor in more than one way. That's what's scary. Clarke remembers her Games clearly, she'd just turned eleven and their impact had never been so great and impressionable on her young mind; when it came down to Emori and the final tribute—one she knew she could never beat in a fistfight—she cut off her own hand with a cleaver, pretended a different tribute did it so her opponent would think she was weak and weakened, and made the mistake of stepping too close to her, close enough for her to stab him in the neck when he least saw it coming. _A survivor's move_ , they called it, raving about it for years. "If that happens we might not live to see another day."

He glances over at her briefly, then gets up, and she lifts her head to follow his motions, right as he's offering her his hand to help her up as well. She takes it, rising to her feet and using her free hand to brush some sand of her backside. He wants to pull his hand away, ready to close the distance between them and the rest of the group, but she laces their fingers together, halting him for just a moment. She just needs one more moment.

"As soon as that cannon goes off…" Clarke tilts her head slightly, giving him a pointed look as she takes a deep, calming breath. Doesn't want to say it out loud again and risk anyone overhearing. She doesn't want any more people to die unless they have to. "Okay?"

He squeezes her hand in agreement and assurance almost immediately, final, then drops it, ducking down to collect the wood before the others get impatient. Together. They have to do this together. It's about the only thing keeping her sane.

.

"A lightning strike typically contains five billion joules of energy," Sinclair explains monotonously like they're in a science class, in the midst of wrapping the wire around the tree. "We don't want to be anywhere in its vicinity when it hits the top."

Murphy and Emori are standing on either side of the tree, taking the wire from him whenever he asks and handing it to the next person. Clarke stands with Bellamy and Luna as they watch. She can't stop thinking about what happens after this.

"From the water we are born, to the water we return," the latter mumbles quietly as she stares up at the broad trunk, hands crossed in front of her, holding her axe like always. Clarke guesses water is saving their asses once again, least they could do is be grateful.

"Well, I don't plan on dying just yet," Bellamy tells her, looking over at Luna with a teasing smile like only he can. Clarke's mouth settles into a thin line. She doesn't even know who she's rooting for anymore.

"You three girls, you need to go together and take this," Sinclair trusts the coil into Luna's hands, bringing them back to reality, nodding at Emori to join them. "Unspool it carefully. The coil has to be in the water entirely. You understand?"

"I have to go with them?" Clarke wonders absently, brow furrowing together, but Sinclair repeats himself, ignoring her like it's just a minor detail they're trying to separate her and Bellamy. "Do you _understand_?"

"I'm going to go with them as a guard," Bellamy announces but Sinclair's already shaking his head. If they split up, there's no guarantee they'll see each other again, is there? It'll be out of their hands once again, and that's the only thing they don't want to happen.

"Absolutely not. You have to stay here and protect me. And the tree."

"No," he insists, unrelenting. His eyebrows are raised in persistence. "I need to go with her."

"There are three of them still out there," Sinclair presses, matter-of-factly. "This way, we're all equally protected." He turns back to the women at that, pointing a finger to their left. "Head to the tree at the 2 o'clock sector. We'll meet you there."

Bellamy doesn't give up, an aggravated edge to his voice now. "Luna is easily our best fighter, just have her stay."

Luna inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything, and Clarke frowns at the weird tension all of a sudden. She feels like she's left out on something. Reasoning, "Why can't me and Bellamy take the coil, maybe take Emori as well?"

Sinclair's nostrils flare, like he's seen all possible outcomes of this plan and to separate the two of them is the only right one. "You all agreed to keep me alive until midnight, am I correct?"

Luna swings the axe on her shoulder, coil pressed under the other arm as she finally cuts in, soberly, "It's his plan. We all agreed to it." She makes a point, but it's not like Clarke has to like it.

Murphy raises an eyebrow as he steps closer to them, probably noticing the hostility in their postures all of a sudden. "Is there a problem here?"

Emori crosses her arms over her chest, challenging look in her eyes. "Excellent question."

Luna's gaze lingers on her and Bellamy, who still looks like he might murder Sinclair just for the mere _suggestion_ they part. Her teeth grit together, for just a second, and then she presses, a strange tone to her voice, "He wants to come with us."

"You're not the only one here trying to save someone you care about," Murphy sneers and Bellamy's jaw tightens, Clarke doesn't try and think about it too much. Of course they care about each other. The two men look at each other with a particular kind of animosity though, that Clarke doesn't quite understand. "So is there? A problem?"

Bellamy and Clarke exchange a brief look. If they push this any further, it'll seem suspicious. They'll know they're not really a part of this alliance, not when it comes down to it, and a fight will break out right here, right now. They can't afford it, not while the Careers are still out there. Besides, she has to be strong, stronger than this, or they won't make it out.

"No," Bellamy dismisses them after a tense moment, curtly, face hard. "There's no problem." He turns away from them, eyes finding hers. Pointedly, because he's a dramatic dick, "I'll see you at midnight."

She watches him walk over towards Sinclair, throat tightening painfully like she's about to cry. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. She'll see him again. Luna makes a move away from the tree but Clarke holds up a finger, rushing after his retreating form. "Bellamy, wait."

He turns around on his heels, face still hard, eyes narrowed together. "I swear to God if this is one of these moments where you tell me to use my head—"

"No," she chokes out, laughing half-heartedly. "I was just going to say..." Her voice trails off. To be honest, she wasn't even sure what compelled her all of a sudden. She had nothing left to say. Not here, not now. She just wanted to see his face one more time, which was probably selfish. Lamely, she just offers, "Be careful."

His face softens all of a sudden, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Clarke, if I don't see you again," he rasps, and she cuts him off before he says anything that changes this dangerous line they've been treading. She leans up, placing her hand on his shoulder and pressing her fingers down tightly, pecking him on the lips quickly. Her blue eyes search his brown ones, memorize every little speck of gold as well as she can. "You will."

.

"What if they don't shoot first?" Clarke pants heavily, the humid air making it especially difficult to breathe as she supports her weight on a tree waiting for Emori to clear the next thirty feet of forest. Their entire plan is based on the fact that the Careers will attack them. But they still have a choice. A choice to do something different. "What if we don't shoot either?"

"Yeah, they're not going to fall for that," Luna counters, absently, like she's considered all of this before, treading on forcefully. "They'll wait it out, or bring more mutts, or have a sponsor buy one of us a firearm if they have to."

"There has to be another way," Clarke answers stubbornly, even if she doesn't have the solution herself. All she knows is she doesn't want to have to kill Sinclair, or Luna, or even Emori or Murphy. How can killing be the only option? Maybe they should just wait for the mutts to kill them, as a form of protest.

"Maybe the fight is all we are. We torture, kill, betray," Luna speaks as she uncoils the wire gingerly, voice steady, but there's an edge to it. Clarke remembers how she'd told her they all didn't deserve to live when they first met. "We pretend we're more than that just to make ourselves feel better, but it's a lie."

Why would a woman who felt that way even be trying this hard? Clarke thought she hated herself, but it's nothing compared to the disgust Luna feels with herself. There's a difference between having to murder a stranger, or having to murder your brother.

"Can you two shut up already?" Emori hisses from up ahead, lowering her voice as she waves at them to crouch down, eyes darting around nervously. "I think I just heard something."

Clarke squints her eyes, wiping some sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand as they wait it out for a few long moments, crouched in between dense bushes. Then, just as they're about to start moving again, out of the corner of her eyes she spots a flash of what resembles a body moving through the trees and towards them.

She reaches for the knife strapped to her leg quickly, opening her mouth to tell them, "There's something—" She's cut off when suddenly the wire snaps in two and Luna tackles her to the ground, sinking her teeth into Clarke's arm. She tries to keep quiet, to not alarm anyone of their presence, but the pain is instant and she's screaming as she squirms under Luna's grip, the handle of her axe pressed against her throat to keep her down.

"Stay down," Luna commands, Clarke's blood dripping down her throat as her hand brushes over the blonde's neck, leaving the skin wet and sticky. A cannon goes off and then she's gone. Her arm throbs and she doesn't what just happened, but she stays still when she hears voices not far from her, voices she doesn't recognize which must mean it's Echo and her lackies.

"I just saw that one-handed freak run off towards the beach," a female voice speaks up, frail but insistent. A different female tells her to be quiet, but the woman doesn't give up, "I swear she did, I saw it. They're split up now. And she's, she's easy! We should—" Clarke squeezes her eyes shut, firmly, recognizing the sound of someone choking on their own blood.

"Fuck!" A male voice barks, and it has to be Pike, and there's some indecipherable noises. The sound of the cannon makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight. That's two now. The girl from nine, and who else? It has to be one of the guys. "Do I need to remind you we're still outnumbered, Echo?"

"She was going to have to go sooner or later and she talks too much," a different female voice, that she thinks is Echo's, retorts nonchalantly. It means she just murdered her own. She lowers her voice, Clarke's heart rate speeding up instantly. "There's someone over there."

"It's Twelve," Pike says, looming over her, and they're so close now. Clarke's tries her hardest not to breathe, even though it feels like a deaf person could hear her heartbeat right now.

"She's dead," Echo spits, pushing at her arm with her foot to further her point. "Come on." There's some rustling of leaves, and then the sound of fading footsteps. She can finally breathe.

Clarke can't keep her thoughts straight, has to force herself to focus. She has to finish what they started. But the wire—the wire is snapped in half so it's no use trying to complete their plan. Luna just attacked her, but didn't kill her and she doesn't know what that means. Echo just attacked her own ally which makes it more clear than ever she can't be trusted. There's no sight of Emori. Bellamy is still out there waiting for Murphy or Sinclair to betray him, too, probably thinks she's dead after that cannon. Oh God. She scrambles up to her feet, starting to turn back towards the tree. She has to warn Bellamy.

She's running as fast as she can, branches hitting her in the face, tripping over her feet as many times as it takes for her hands to be grazed and bloody. There's a loud explosion not too far from her, and she speeds up, she has to get there. She has to.

When she does get to the tree, there's no one in sight. She's yelling for him, yelling out his name, yelling out Luna's as well, but the only one who comes charging towards her is Murphy. She gasps, eye falling on Sinclair not too far from them, unconscious on the ground with blood oozing from his head, he could be dead. A spear is lying beside him. She fixes her gaze back in front of her. Blood is stuck to Murphy's hands. She tries to reach for her bow, is trying to draw an arrow, but her hands shake too much, and he's close too close, and she can't, and what about Bellamy, what if he's dead too, she can't—can't think.

He's shouting something at her, yanking the arrow from her hand and throwing it on the ground, fingers grasping her upper arms tightly. It feels like his voice is coming from a million miles away, like there's cotton balls stuffed into her ears. After a moment, she manages to make out a, "... out there! Clarke, stop!"

Finally, something snaps back into place, throwing the bow back over her shoulder as she shoves him off her. Accusingly, she hisses, "Where the hell is Bellamy?" She shoves him again, stepping closer to him. She's not scared.

"Last time I checked, he went running after _you_ , princess," he sneers, equally unintimidated, not even budging an inch. Not even when she presses her knife against his throat, hard, blood trickling down her wrist. He doesn't drop her gaze, and this is exactly what they want. They want Clarke Griffin—the girl who showed compassion, the girl on fire—they want her to murder her own ally on live television. He doesn't drop her gaze, instead lowers his voice, for once not scowling, "Remember who the real enemy is."

The knife trembles as she searches his face, bewildered, and she doesn't understand anything; but she understands it's something, and something means a hell of a lot more than nothing, like these Games do; she understands what they want from her and she won't give it to them. She won't. She lowers her arm, and he nods at her, curt, jaw tight.

"We have to find them," she exclaims, eyes darting around erratically, trying to think of a way out of this. She has to stay calm. She has to, but she can't. Urging, "We have to save them, Murphy."

A cannon goes off, startling them both. Clouds rumble, sky turning even darker. "Clarke, get away from the tree," Murphy yells, starting to step away from it and she looks up at the clouds and takes out an arrow. She crouches down, wraps the wire around it. He could be dead, they all could be dead. She doesn't care if she is dead as well, but she can't give them what they want. Has to make them pay for what they did to her, what they did to the hundreds of kids before her, to her friends, what they made out of all of them. If she's going to die, she's going to take the whole entire arena with her. She aims it at the sky, the forcefield, pulls the string back, and Murphy comes back, reaching for her, insistent, "Clarke, get away—" and releases it. Lightning strikes and she doesn't have time to react, but for some inexplicable reason Murphy steps in front of her, taking on most of the blast from the tree. She's knocked to the ground anyway, breathing knocked out of her as well, skin on fire as she stares up at the sky.

She can hardly keep her eyes open, her ears ringing, everything hurting. But the sky. The sky is crumbling—no, the forcefield is. She feels like she's dead, or she might be dying, doesn't feel like she's actually here. It's so dark, so incredibly dark.

Then there's a light—just a barely there, distant beam of light—but it's coming closer, and she doesn't hear anything, but it's cold, and she blinks and blinks and then she smiles, because the end is near, it's so near. She can feel it.

.

She gasps awake, scrambling into a seating position. Her vision turns black for a second, head pounding. When it returns, it's too bright, the light hurting her eyes. She covers them by holding her hand up, eyes following the IV-line attached to her arm. It's bandaged as well, and when she touches her free hand to her face, there's something taped to her forehead as well.

Shifting her head to the side, there's someone beside her, Sinclair, still unconscious as she recognizes the room as that off the hovercraft that transported her to the launch room. Bile rises up her throat as an image of Lincoln flashes in front of her eyes, and she turns her head away from Sinclair.

She doesn't know where she is, but she knows she has to get away. She has to get away before whoever took her tries to turn her into another Polis weapon. She rips the line from her vein, blood immediately trickling down her arm and she lets it. She rises to her feet slowly, trying to be as stealthy as she can even though her vision is blurred, as she threads towards the nearest door. When she reaches it, her eye catches the first aid kit, wide open. She takes the first thing she can find, a syringe with some sort of medicine in it. She recognizes it as a tranquilizer her mother used on rare occasions in her practice, and hides it behind her back.

There's voices from behind the door. She trains her gaze on the door, squinting her eyes as she focuses on the words. "...lose it, when she finds out about him." Another voice. "She'll still cooperate, right?" She swallows tightly, mouth tasting like metal. What are they talking about? Her? "Without Bellamy, there's no guarantee." _Bellamy_. She thinks it's a voice she knows, but when she steps closer, to hear better, it slides open, triggered by the movement.

"Morning sunshine," Murphy snarls, but something about it feels off about it, like he hadn't expected her. One of his eyes is black, swollen shut, cuts everywhere on his face being held together with butterfly bandages, white bandage peeking out from under his shirt all the way down to his hand, arm in a sling, fingers splinted. He's looked better. She eyes the three of them warily, tentatively moving forward, just a bit. A table separates them from her. Murphy, Luna and… Marcus Kane? What the hell was going on?

"What is he doing here with the two of you?" She snaps, and she feels like she's losing it, like there's no blood flowing through her brain. Something is happening right in front of her, and she can't quite put her finger on it.

"You and a syringe against Polis?" He snorts, like this is all just a game and she hates him. Absolutely hates him. At least he looks pained when he moves too much, she can find comfort in that. "And we all thought Gaia was the crazy one, huh?"

She takes a threatening step forward, holding up the syringe, ready to stab him with it. Growling, "What the _fuck_ is going on?"

"Stop," Luna presses, voice soft, eyes soft and was she not just in that same fucking arena? Did she wake up in an alternative universe? "Stop. Just listen. We couldn't tell you, not with Wallace watching your every move. It was too risky."

She can't think about this, what they're implying, think about President Wallace. Not now. Her throat feels tight, that annoying tell she's about to cry. Still, she manages to bite, not too unsteady, "Where's Bellamy?"

"Clarke. _You_ have been our mission from the beginning," Marcus cuts in, carefully, eerily calm as he holds up a hand, like he's trying to steady her. She narrows her eyes at them, darting from one person to the other to the other, trying to put the pieces together. His gaze softens, like he feels for her. He doesn't know what the hell she's been through. "The plan was _always_ to get you out."

"Half the tributes were in on it," Murphy reveals and she can't think straight. In on _what_?

"This is the revolution," Kane continues, severe as he flats his hands on the table in front of him. He's wearing that watch, the one with the image of the—"You are the Mockingjay, the face of the rebellion. We're on our way to district thirteen right now."

"Thirteen?" She shakes her head, none of it makes sense, none of it matters, not when—"Where's Bellamy?"

Luna steps away from the table, threads closer gingerly, hands up defensively, giving her time to back away. When she doesn't, she strides closer. "Clarke. He still had his tracker in his arm." Her eyes flicker over to the bandage on Clarke's arm, briefly. Red is already seeping through it. "I took yours out."

Her jaw clenches, nostrils flare, grip around the syringe tightening. Angrily, she demands, " _Where_ is he?"

"He's in Polis," she says calmly, gaze insistent on hers even if Clarke can't look at her, can't think, not when the words coming out of her mouth are choking her. He went looking for her. Instead of just following the plan, he went looking for her at the first sign of distress and now, now the capital has him and is going to do God knows what to him. "They took him and Emori."

"No," she yells, body shaking with sobs, voice hoarse and broken. "No! You should've taken him. Not—not me. He promised me." He was supposed to pick himself over her. He was supposed to come out. Luna's arms wrap around her trembling frame, "He p-promised me. I hate him. He lied. I hate him so mu-ch—" She gasps for air, hand reaching for her throat, trying to push Luna off, but she doesn't budge, grip tight, and they both sinks down to their knees. Luna pulls her back against her chest, rocks her lightly as Clarke sobs loudly. "I c-can't—he promised—he said—he's a liar—"

"Shhh," she shushes her, whispers into her hair, commandingly, and she can't, she can't _breathe_. "I give myself to the miracle of the sea. Repeat it." The rocking motion offers the slighests of comforts and she manages to take a full breath, no longer fighting against the other victor, against the pain. "Say it with me, Clarke. I give myself to the miracle of the sea."

She repeats the phrase over and over again, until the repetitiveness of it regulates her labored, stuttering breaths, turns soothing, until she's just quietly sobbing, trying to echo the words. She stumbles on the syllables, Luna's hand coming up to pry her fingers of the syringe, and it falls to the floor. Murphy groans as he bends down to pick it up and Luna says something to him, brow furrowed, but Clarke doesn't register it, only hissing out in pain as the needle sinks into her skin.

.

"Mom?" She asks, as soon as she opens her eyes, and this time she's sure she's dead.

"Hi, sweetie," her mother smiles through her tears, running her hand over her daughter's hair soothingly. "You're awake." Clarke just blinks up at her, briefly wondering if it just all had been one big nightmare. "You've been asleep for a few days," Abby continues, a tear trickling down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away, smile broadening shakily.

"Are we home?" She finally forces out, because she needs to know. Her entire body feels stiff and sore, mind stuffy. She's in a room she's never seen before, and she doesn't know what changed, but her mother doesn't flinch at the mere sight of her and Clarke doesn't have it in her to be angry right now. Not after everything that's happened. Not after she thought she was dead.

"They got me out in time."

She sits up, leaning back on her elbows as her brow furrows together. "Got you out?"

"After the Games," her mother trails off, and there's a knock on the door, her head snapping to the door as she has a brief exchange with someone whose voice Clarke doesn't recognize. She's can't bear to look away from her mother's face, so she wouldn't know who it was anyway. Her mother turns back to her, face softening as she offers her a somewhat apologetic smile. "After the Games, they sent in hovercrafts, and they started dropping firebombs."

Wallace. Wallace he said— _if this turns into a war, try and remember it'll be the people in twelve who'll suffer._ Everyone who would die in the name of a rebellion… _That's all on you_.

Her mouth is so dry, not even swallowing helps. Her brain is racing, with what ifs and half truths and _you've been our mission from the beginning_. She feels numb, like she's watching herself and her mother from the outside. "We're not in twelve?"

"There is no district twelve, Clarke." Her mother swallows thickly, and Clarke searches her face for any hint that this it just a sick joke, that it's a tracker-jacker induced hallucination, or a capital simulation, or a passageway to the afterlife. Anything would be better. "It's all gone."

.


End file.
